The Story Teller
by she.s.a.shy.one
Summary: Upon recieving a letter 10 years after the disaster of the Populaire theatre, Christine de Chagny begins to unravel the incredible story of the Phantom of the Opera and the backstage girl who loved him. Erik/OC
1. Chapter One

_A/N : So. Hi. This is my first Phanfic (ha, see what I did there? See? With the 'Phan' tom- alright, I'll shut up now) and I hope you enjoy it. Erik, to me is one the best antivillains ever written out. It's based off the 2004 movie and please forgive any changes regarding ages or such, Erik is a little younger in this than he's portrayed._

* * *

_CHAPTER ONE_

* * *

Winter, 1880  
_Château de Chagny  
Toulouse_

* * *

Christine de Chagny sat quietly in her parlour, her interest currently consumed with her teacup. Her visitors did not appear to mind much that their hostess was remaining quiet for the afternoon and carried on in their usual fashion, debating the newest trends in ribbons and shoes.

Christine's mind had taken a leave of absence from her roles as the Viscountess de Chagny. Instead of indulging her friends in their chatter or throwing herself into the question of whether the new low-cut neckline of Mme Amelie was slightly _too _low, the brunette's mind had cast itself back in time, to a day very much like today when her home and future had appeared to burn down around her.

And yet here she was, she mused, stirring her tea idly. Living comfortably in her husband's beautiful countryside manor, servants to attend to her every need, all the luxuries that had been denied her growing up in the ballet barracks at the Parisian Populaire Opera House.

Even now, as Christine closed her eyes ever so briefly, she could remember the music from the orchestra, the fumes of freshly painted backdrops, the prick of jewel-sewn gowns against her skin. Despite the nightmares and darkness that haunted the newly opened theatre, Christine could not help but recall the magic of a well performed opera and the wonder of being part of such a spectacular.

But she must, the Viscountess de Chagny schooled herself, nodding politely to the lady on her left. She must never remember that darkness. It only named the fear and confusing feelings hidden against the interior of her heart. She must not, her dear husband had begged her, remember any of it. He would take her away from it all and they would never set foot in Paris again. They would never speak of what happened under that hellish theatre, in those watery catacombs. She must not allow herself to remember those deep, passionate emotions.

Ten years and Christine de Chagny, formerly Christine Daae, the most beautiful and promising soprano the Populaire had ever had on its stages, had finally composed those emotions into more manageable ones. The complicated sensations of music and terror and the unknown had been limited and restrained into a love of the arts, a chill of fear, a curiosity which had almost led to their undoing.

No, Christine told herself as the butler Marcel came to the door of the finely decorated parlour. She must not remember.

"A letter, your ladyship, has arrived." He said, quietly. Christine raised an eyebrow, confused.

"Marcel, I'm with my guests, please leave it with the others in my chambers and I will see to it later." She said, smoothly. Marcel hesitated, which should have been her first sign that something was wrong. The forty six year old servant was normally unwaveringly obedient.

"My lady-"

"Marcel, I will see to the note _later._" Christine's tone was so different from the times she had been recalling. Perhaps it was those memories, making her sharp, she mused as the grey haired manservant bowed and left quickly.

"How embarrassing Christine," Madame Amelie tutted, shaking out her fan though for what reason Christine could not see: there was still snow on the de Chagny manor grounds so it could not have been the heat.

"I agree, are all your servants so disobedient to their lady's wishes?" Duchess Rose of England muttered, her voice unflatteringly croaky.

Christine flushed delicately. "Of course not but Marcel is my husband's favourite manservant, he must have misjudged the importance of the note."

And so her tea party continued, the giggling of ladies and talk of the Baron's illegitimate son by a seamstress sweeping away the memories Christine was not permitted to recall.

* * *

"And tea with the Duchess?" Raoul said, absentmindedly. "How was it?"

Christine rolled her eyes as she ran a brush through her hair. Her vanity threw back a reflection of the lovely thirty-odd year old but Christine was focused on the lines around her eyes and the sallowness of her skin. Madame Amelie's skin was perfect and she was but a year younger than the Viscountess. _I'll ask her next time I see her, _she decided.

"Fine dear." She replied to her husband, tiredly. She decided not to mention that the Duchess ate with her mouth open and had a terrible habit of mumbling. The Viscount de Chagny was attempting a business deal with the English which would go better if his wife were friends with the English Duke's wife.

Glancing at him in the reflection, her eyes studied the lines of his body which showed his good living. But with his glowing blue gaze and full head of fair hair, Christine could still say he was without a doubt the man she had fallen in love with all those years ago.

_Not again,_ she cursed herself, her brow furrowing as she took in the letters that had piled up on her bedside table. Slipping into the voluminous silken bed, she picked them up and began to flick through them. When she had first married Raoul, she'd been startled that so many people would write to her with extensions of friendships and invitations. Ten years on, she couldn't help but find the process somewhat tedious. _If I agree to this person, will she be offended? If I snub him, will his wife spread rumours?_ She never used to have to worry about this kind of thing. Not back when her routine revolved around the stage and lessons by candlelight in the dark glowing chapel of the Populaire…

"Christine?"

Startled, the brunette's head flicked toward her husband who look worried. "Christine, love, are you alright?"

She thought about nodding and smiling as she usually did but could not muster the energy. Her memories were beginning to cloud her. She was beginning to remember again. "No," the brunette and former soprano admitted. "I fear sleep tonight."

"Oh my poor love," Raoul whispered, slipping his arms around her tall, willowy form. "Have you been thinking much of it lately? It is nearly that time of year again."

"Tomorrow it will be ten years to the day, Raoul." Christine murmured. "And yet I still have no answers or defences for the fear inside me."

"You have me now Little Lotte," her blond husband said, trying to give her his strength. "And I am your defence."

"I know," she sighed, half comforted, half disappointed that Raoul did not understand her wish for clarity. She was no closer to answers than she had been as a seventeen year old maiden.

"I was going to surprise you," he suddenly confessed. "But I've arranged tickets for this Saturday night in town. There's a new Laurent opera opening at the theatre if you'd like to attend."

Christine gasped and hugged his neck tightly. "I think that shall make me feel much better, my love. Thankyou."

Raoul smiled at her gentle eyes. "Now let's see what we have here shall we? Perhaps the tickets are among these letters…" he said teasingly. He ran his hands through the pile on her lap, shaping out her legs and thighs from on top of the blankets as she giggled. "No…no…not here…" he kissed her cheeks softly right as Christine came across the letter Marcel had carried into the parlour this morning.

"Oh, Raoul, I must look at this one," she said, apologetically. "Marcel appeared to think it of great importance."

"He does not read our letter my love," Raoul pointed out, frowning.

Christine tore open the thick envelope slowly and pulled out what appeared to be a manuscript of some kind. "How odd," she murmured, opening the first page and casting her eyes at the greeting.

_To my dear solnyshka-_

She nearly dropped the pages out of sheer astonishment.

"Christine? What's wrong? Who is this from?" Raoul asked, growing more panicked.

Christine could not answer, her eyes eagerly consuming the opening line over and over…_to my dear solnyshka…to my dear solnyshka…_

There was only one soul in the entire world who called her their _little sunshine _and for many, _many _years, she had assumed her to be dead.

"It's from Margot." Christine whispered.

Raoul, on the other hand, turned pale. "Who? No, that's impossible! You must have read wrong!" he made to grab the pages but Christine clutched them to her breast automatically.

"Stop Raoul!" she cried out, keeping the pages to her chest protectively. "It must be her, it must be!"

"That woman is dead Christine!" Raoul said, angrily.

"Perhaps." Was all his wife replied, coldly. Even now, their marriage rocked on precarious seas where this particular corner of their shared past lay.

"You mustn't read it." Raoul decided after a moment. "Even if it is from her."

"I must." Christine said, steadfastly, rising from the bed and slipping a gown around her shoulders.

"Christine what are you-?"

"Since it is obvious you will not allow me to read _my _letter in your presence, I will do so elsewhere." Christine said, stonily, leaving their bedchamber without a glance backward.

Settling into her favourite winged chair in their library, the fire roaring thanks to the late working maid Marie, Christine began her letter again.

_To my dear solnyshka,_

_I know that this may come as a shock. I know that it is something that has weighed upon my mind for many years. But with the anniversary nearly upon us, I knew that it was time to write to you and reveal myself. The winter is cold isn't it Christine? It is so cold here that the snow is constantly fresh and crunches under foot. That always used to make you happy and I hope time has not changed you so that it does not any longer._

_Forgive me, I am trying to stall myself from what must be said. Firstly, let me tell you that I am safe and loved. I know that in the arms of your Viscount, you must be also, though it does pain me to think of you with him. Again, I beg for forgiveness, moe solnyshka, I had promised myself that I would not allow my personal thoughts of your husband to cloud this letter._

_Secondly, I must address the purpose of this letter. Out of all of us in that tomb that night, you were the one left most in the dark and it is time for that to be amended. I am going to tell you everything sunshine and I am going to tell you here, on these pages. You may do what you will with them. Burn them. Tear them. Or god forbid, read them._

_It is your choice but know this solnyshka: In these pages is the uttermost truth of what happened leading up that night and what happened after. You will know everything I do after you read this and I hope, for my own conscience's sake, that you will._

_With much love,_

_Margot Laurent_

With only a moment's hesitation, Christine unbound the bright green ribbon binding the pages and with shaking fingers, she began to read.

* * *

_A/N: So there's Margot, my little Russian-French OC. I should probably mention that the itallics at the beginning of each chapter is a segment from her letter too._


	2. Chapter Two

_A/N: Alright bring on chapter two! I should probably state now that I don't intend this to be an awfully _long _story. I see up to sixteen chapers, no more. There's a list of translations down the bottom._

* * *

_CHAPTER TWO_

…_I was born in 1850, to a man named Jacques Ferrand and his wife Albina. He was an architect and a prominent one at that. Nobles from across Europe commissioned him for designing their summer homes or winter palaces and he took up every piece as a challenge. My mother, Albina, was the daughter of a Russian merchant and she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen._

_Theirs, unlike her sisters', had been a love match and they lived in the city of Versailles, France. Both my parents lived happily and well within their means. We never had issues with money or food. I grew up the daughter of two loving parents and we were happy for a long time. And yet, that happiness ended quickly in 1856._

_My house was mistakenly targeted by a group of thieves and one night, while I lay sleeping, they broke into our home and slaughtered my parents. I found them the next morning and, terrified and distraught, I ran away. No one found me until the winter of 1857 and by then, I was barely recognisable to my own self, let alone the uncle they sent me to live with…_

* * *

Winter, 1857  
_Opera Populaire  
Paris_

* * *

"I don't want no brat," the portly man spat, eying the scrawny creature at the end of the policeman's grip. She squirmed and thrashed in the uniformed man's unrelenting grip and he looked thoroughly fed up as she tried to yank her arm out once more.

The policeman growled. He'd found and identified the street girl in his grasp three weeks ago, trying to pinch food off a marketstall. With winter came a depressing rise in orphan crime. Children who usually hid quite effectively became desperate for something to ease the ache in their bellies and this girl was no different.

Margot Ferrand, as she'd sullenly told him, was a runaway from Versailles who had made it into the city somehow and managed to survive nearly a year but she was unprepared for the winter. The policeman doubted she'd been living alone since it was ridiculous to think a six year old could've snuck into Paris by herself but whoever had been keeping her was obviously not her family, given the reaction of her paternal uncle before him.

"I said stop that!" the policeman snapped before sighing. "Monsieur if you do not want her then she will go into the Saint Constance Orphanage." He at least tried to make his tone firm but he was beginning to wonder what good it would do. Her uncle, the manager of the stagehands at the Opera Populaire in Paris, was hard pressed for patience and time, both of which were needed to deal with the child at hand.

It looked like it was off to the orphanage with this one.

The girl was suddenly quiet at his words however and both men, standing in the cold snow on the backsteps of the Opera House, paused to see her reaction. Pale enough, Margot Ferrand had turned icy and her dark grey eyes looked wide and panicked. Accompanied by her tatty dress and holey shoes, she looked the picture of pathetic and helpless.

"No orphanage! Please!" she began to whimper, thrashing now in a panic. "No! No! They'll find me!"

"Who will find you?" her uncle snapped, frustrated. He'd been woken from sleeping off the liquor of the previous night by some ridiculous fop in a uniform claiming he was in possession of his niece. Franck Ferrand was hardly in a sentimental mood, considering his brother and he had had a falling out over his surplus of liquor and whores years ago. The little brat he'd had a hand in spawning was of no consequence to the stagehand.

"The men! They take children from orphanages, the other kids, they told me!" she shrieked, pulling away frantically. Her wrists were practically skeletal and the policeman sensed that he'd leave bruises with the way she was thrashing away from him.

Franck sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. "I don't care, you little toad, get away from here!" he snapped, angrily as the policeman tried to calm the girl to no success, her limp mousy brown hair flying as she reared backward.

"Ferrand, what is going on here?" the deep, calm but sharp female voice that cut across the scene made both men flinch automatically. A young woman, possibly twenty or so herself, appeared, her face sombre and stern as her cold flint eyes studied the girl in the policeman's arms and the cowardly stagehand squirming uncomfortably under her gaze.

"Nothing Mademoiselle Giry," Franck said gruffly. "The policeman was just being on his way."

The policeman sighed and explained to the woman about Margot and her uncle and the current predicament. Mademoiselle Giry took in the story with little affect on her face before studying the girl carefully. Margot had ceased her thrashing and was now crying silently, rubbing her nose from time to time as she looked at the stone steps beneath her feet.

"Look up here girl." She suddenly snapped and Margot's grey eyes met Mademoiselle Giry's in a heartbeat. "Stand up, back straight. None of the children at the Populaire have poor posture."

"But- Mademoiselle, the managers-!" Franck spluttered, not wanting to openly disagree with the formidable ballet mistress. Acknowledged as an expert in her field and one of the most promising dancers on stage until her pregnancy four years ago, Antoinette Giry was considered a revered part of the Opera House.

"Have taken in children off the streets before as long as they could earn their wage." Mademoiselle Giry finished smoothly. "That will be all Monsieur L'Agent." The policeman frowned but released the girl onto the steps and stumbled out into the cold, somewhat bewildered.

"Mademoiselle, I have no interest in taking my brother's brat in," Franck growled, furiously as Mademoiselle ushered Margot inside the back of the Opera House. The first thing that struck the seven year old was how tremendously high the ceilings were.

"And that is exactly why you shall do it, Ferrand." Mademoiselle Giry replied, sharply. "You took the young Mademoiselle Garrier to your bed yesterday evening did you not?"

"W-Well yes, but what business is it of yours-?" Franck spluttered again, his stubbled face turning bright red.

"She is but a child, Monsieur Ferrand." Mademoiselle Giry said, her tone bored. "Fifteen years old."

"That's ridiculous!" Ferrand began before Giry cut in over him.

"You need this for your conscience and your earthly soul, Ferrand and besides, I won't have you turf out the girl because you're too drunk to care for her." she added, icily. "Therefore, you will take her in or I will be addressing the issue of Isabelle Garrier's virtue or lack thereof with her parents tomorrow evening when they come to ask me for a place in my ballet corps on behalf of their daughter."

Ferrand growled, completely furious and glared angrily at the brat who had caused him so much issue before storming away in a rage to see about rooms for the little toad. After he turned the corner, Mademoiselle Giry looked the girl up and down, looking unimpressed. "Well?"

"Madame?" Margot echoed, confused.

Mademoiselle Giry rolled her eyes. "I just saved you from the orphanage girl, you'd better prove your worth to me and quickly. What can you do apart from scream like a banshee?"

"I-I-" Margot stood speechless before the woman, who seemed to grow colder as she stammered. Think, think, think Margot…"I can tell stories, Mademoiselle!" she suddenly burst out, thinking of how the alley children used to like to hear her speak in the little basement they'd collected in for the winter.

"Stories?" the Mademoiselle appeared unimpressed but Margot struggled on.

"Oui Madame- I mean, Mademoiselle!" she breathed deeply. "I tell very good stories."

The Mademoiselle hummed, her eyebrows raised with thought. "Very well then. How old are you girl?"

"S-Seven."

"And your parents?"

Margot hung her head. "Gone, Mademoiselle."

"Good." Mademoiselle Giry said, heartlessly. "You will distract my petits ballet corps while I am with my older students with your stories." She said the word with distaste. "Until we find you work with another department. Come along. Knowing Franck, he's probably thought clearing out a drawer in his dresser will be enough for you to sleep in."

Margot followed the woman as she walked briskly through the halls of the Opera Populaire, entirely unaware of the eyes that watched her, criticising her every move.

* * *

"…And so the pirate asked which the prince liked better, his tongue or his hands. But I need both my lord pirate! My people will never accept a handless or tongueless ruler! The prince begged, weeping at the pirate's feet. His eyes gleaming and the fingers on his sword twitching, the pirate drew out his long, sweeping silver blade: Then you shall have neither and never rule again!" Margot yelled, miming the sweep of a sword as she stood before the ballet rats, who sat entranced before her.

"But, as he swung his sword, who should appear in the crowd but the fearless runaway Anna!" Margot said and the pink frilled girls squealed.

"Did she save him?"

"What about the prince?"

"Did the pirate get his hands?"

"Anna had been hiding on board The Sea Wench since it left land and had cut her hair to look like a boy. Now, as she grabbed the sword of a nearby pirate servant, she flung it at the Pirate Lord and cleanly cut a letter A into his cheek, taking the better half of his greasy grey locks with it." Margot's words quietened the girls who waited with baited breath for the next instalment of the story of Anna and the Pirate and the Prince.

"Anna watch out! The prince cried as one of the Pirate's shipmates threw a dagger toward Anna's head. She skilfully ducked away from it, yanking the dagger from the hard wood of the ship for herself. The Pirate, overcome with his anger at seeing her alive, struck first and Anna lunged forward, swinging her blade forward, meeting the pirate's tap for tap, stroke for stroke!" Margot lunged forward herself, swiping her imaginary sword as the ballet rats waited still.

"The prince thrashed against his bindings and managed to knock the tiny bottle of sparkling water from the pirate first mate's grip," Margot grabbed the water pitcher from the side table and flicked drops of water across her audience. "It smashed on the floor, breaking the magic of the sea witch! The Pirate screamed as he felt his mortality rush to him, no longer empowered by the fountain of youth. Anna saw her chance, moved toward the Pirate lord and-"

"Margot."

The girl froze and quickly turned to face her uncle who stood moodily in the doorway. After being soundly told off by the manager Monsieur LeFevre for calling her toad in his presence, Franck had reluctantly begun using his niece's real name, though it sounded like an insult when he did.

"Yes Uncle?" Margot asked, quietly.

"Go to your room. Giry," he sneered. "needs her dancers and I need you asleep and soundless for tonight."

The ballet rats sighed and complained about missing the end of the story and after promising to finish it tomorrow, Margot exited the room under the watchful eye of her uncle Franck.

It had been two weeks since she'd come to stay at the Populaire and so far, her place as a distraction for the petits ballet corps was a success. Mademoiselle Giry had wordlessly allowed her keep the position so long as her dancers remained out of trouble and focused on Margot's fantastic tales. Uncle Franck on the other hand, had begun to feel accustomed to having Margot around, if only as an irritating shadow and minor responsibility. Though he complained about it to his various evening ladies, he exaggerated. After being shown how to use the tiny kitchen of Franck's apartments and where everything was, Margot was remarkably independent in using almost everything.

At seven, she regularly cooked for herself and her uncle and Franck was paid a few extra coins for Margot's work in babysitting Giry's dancers and occasionally Giry's daughter Meg who was only four. She cleaned up after herself and made do with the tiny second add on bedroom. She hadn't had a bed of her own in almost a year and though it was a downgrade from her former life, Margot still found her surroundings a comfort.

Her only problem was her loneliness.

Despite being the centre of attention for the ballet rats, they were mostly older than her and with her pearly skin, limp mousy hair and deep grey eyes, Margot was rather plain to most. She was a story teller and an acquaintance but on occasion, a faint chant of Margot Escargot Margot Escargot met her ears.

Her uncle, though softening toward her presence, wanted little to do with her and Mademoiselle Giry's kindness was apparently spent on allowing her to stay. There were few children her own age and even less that wanted anything to do with her for whatever reasons.

It was a different circumstance than previous, when she'd had her parents or at the very least, the other street children who were more than eager to play with her and escape their dank living situations for a little while.

The only person who seemed glad to see her was baby Meg who thought the world of Margot.

As she settled into her tiny bed, she heard the tell-tale signs of Franck preparing for a night out with his stagehands. The hum of preparation was enough to keep her awake and so she tiptoed to the tiny window which, despite its size, had a spectacular view of the city, especially on nights like these.

"What will Anna do tomorrow?" she murmured to herself, thinking over Anna de Mort, the fearless heroine of her stories so far. Many of her travels were based on real life, from what she remembered of being picked up in Versailles, still distraught over her parents' murder and carted to Paris to work as a child labourer.

Anna had escaped using a sword she'd fashioned from a fireplace poker but Margot had merely disappeared one night, her slight, tiny frame an excellent weapon for stealth and sneaking about.

Anna had rallied the children on the street to take over one of the rich apartment buildings in Paris before she'd uncovered the devious pirate plan to kidnap the visiting Prince of India. Margot had simply blended in with the other street orphans until a boy named George had taught her how to sing and dance and cry for coins or food.

Her mother had taught her how to make the best stories, Margot thought, sadly. Under her breath, she quietly practised the Russian she had both been taught and caught her mother saying unintentionally, and tried to remember occasions during the day when she could have used them.

Like when Uncle swore at his new stagehand and called him a bastard, Margot thought. She tried to picture Uncle, his thick muscles clenched as he swore "Svoloch!" at the new staff.

Or when Monsieur LeFevre said hello to me today. Margot giggled quietly at the thought of stuffy Monsieur LeFevre saying privet in her mother's sweet accented voice.

Under her breath, Margot practised in her bed until Uncle finally left and the apartments' quiet slowly found her drifting into sleep.

* * *

Now was the time.

The boy in the walls slowly crept out from the passageway and slipped down the hall towards the second door on the right. His hands found the locked door quickly and a quick flick of his nimble fingers and it swung open, soundless under the touch of le fantome.

He smirked to himself, the roughly sewn mask on the right side of his face obscuring the small grin he allowed as he trod unhindered into the apartments of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Ferrand.

This would be his first time trying to navigate with someone other than Antoinette through his lair but he was confident that the light weight of Mademoiselle Ferrand would be little hindrance. As he crept through her open bedroom door, the boy with the mask paused to watch the moonlight as it hit the skin of the little girl sleeping before him.

She was a mousy creature and seemed very young asleep but the moonlight made her skin seem translucent, pearly as her name suggested. She had become a curiosity to him and he had to understand her the way he had to understand most things, completely and without reservation.

But she rarely spoke to anyone so the chance of picking up on private conversations was limited. She didn't speak much unless she was telling stories, which he had to admit, he enjoyed immensely. As he slowly crept upon her, the girl did not even flinch, not even when he carefully shifted her hands over her chest and slipped his arms beneath her back and knees, noiselessly scooping her from her thin blankets.

Back through the silent apartments and into the hall, the boy with the mask carefully checked around him before slipping into the passageway that cut directly into the wall. His hideaway fully sealed, the boy in the walls made his way through the chilled, black passages with a practised step, all the while paying careful attention not to jostle the sleeping Margot Ferrand in his arms.

* * *

Margot had had many odd dreams since she had come to live at the Populaire. She had dreamt of her parents and their death, of the men who had killed them, of the men who had stolen her from the countryside surrounding her house and taken her into the city. She dreamt of the street children and of them all laying in the snow, dead and frozen, of Uncle and his meaty fists beating her in as she'd had a few men try to do so far.

But most of all, she dreamt of someone watching her, someone whispering in her ear, of eyes looking at her through walls and dark hallways that stretched for miles into the roots of the Populaire. These dreams she thought the least of but upon waking up in the candlelit cavern on the shore of an underground lake, Margot considered, sleepily that perhaps she should've paid more attention.

Unsure if she was still dreaming, Margot pinched herself a few times, marvelling at how real it all felt and preparing to be gone as soon as her pinch woke herself up. And yet, with each passing minute, Margot began to feel dread as the water lapped at the shore and her eyes grew used to the dim candlelight.

"Bozhe moi…" she whispered, remembering her mother's favourite expression. Her fingers swept over the stone beneath her as she stood, her nightgown doing little to protect her from the chill of the cavernous space.

"God has little power down here." A voice said suddenly and Margot gave a little shriek as she looked around desperately for the source. "Oh don't tell me the fearless Margot Escargot is scared?" he taunted.

She could tell now that it was a boy. She would know that kind of mocking tone anywhere. "Come out right this instance!" she snapped, looking around at the clutter that crowded the desks and the books that littered every space imaginable. , Mar

"Why should I?" the boy asked, insolently. "You're in my home now."

"You brought me here." She said, firmly. There was no other explanation. "Tell me why."

"Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully. "No. Why don't you tell me a story and then maybe I'll tell you?"

"I only tell people I like my stories." Margot replied, petulantly.

"You like the ballet rats?" his laughed turned mean. "They don't like you. Margot Escargot, remember?"

"Shut up!" she cried out, angrily. That stupid name! "Shut up!"

"No." the voice growled. "Tell me a story. Now."

"No!"

"Tell me a story!"

"No, _tupoy_! I don't want to tell you my stories!" she screamed, thoroughly above caution at the mysterious voice. She could almost pinpoint his location now, though it seemed to be coming from a few different places, all in the same vicinity.

"They're my stories now and I want to hear one!" the boy roared.

Margot gasped as one of the candelabras fell with a clang to the ground, the flames slowly dying out on the stony floor. "N-no, you can't! They're mine!"

"I will keep you here and you will tell me stories!" he yelled, furiously.

"N-no! They're m-mine!" she cried out, falling to her knees. Her stories were all she had. Her clothes were hand me downs from the other Populaire staff children and her bedroom was her Uncle's. She had no friends and she had no real family but she had her stories. "How about I take something of yours?"

"Like what?" the boy laughed, cruelly.

"Like, like-" she turned around desperately until she saw it. The mask that sat on one of the tables, a plain white moulding that was being carefully lined with satin. It may not have been much but Margot knew that the care put into the unfinished piece and the precision with which it was perched, on a velvet pillow, had sentimental value.

Carelessly, she grabbed it and revelled when the cavern went silent. She waited, her face determined as she held the mask in her fingers.

She didn't wait long.

"Put it back." The command was angry but helpless. If the boy wanted his mask back, he would have to come out of his shadows and tricks and take it from her.

"No. It's mine now." Margot taunted, viciously.

"P-Put it back!" he sound furious now.

"No!"

A year of being wary of people sneaking up on you meant that when the boy stepped forward, Margot knew exactly how far behind her he was. She flew around, pulling the mask backward to her chest.

He was taller than she'd expected and younger. He didn't seem much older than she was, but he was on the cusp of being old enough to work. His face was too sharp to be a child's and his form was slightly too filled out. She'd seen boys like him on the streets and guessed he was about twelve or so, just beginning to leave true childhood behind.

His skin was darker than hers but living in the cave had obviously turned him pale. His hair was jet black and his clothes were plain but well made. He even had shoes which looked hand fashioned. His eyes were coloured from what she could see but one of them was covered by a rough burlap patch which stretched from his lip to his hairline across the right side of his face.

She could suddenly sense the importance of the mask in her hands and she wavered as the boy's gaze alternated between her face and the mask in her grip. "Give it back to me." He said, slowly reaching out his hand.

She tilted her chin upwards. "I want to go back." She declared. "And you have to say they're _my _stories, not yours."

The boy's jaw clenched as Margot fidgeted with the mask but he nodded. "Fine. You can go back. Now give it back."

"And?"

"And what?"

"My stories!"

The boy growled, somehow sounding far more frightening than her uncle ever could. But Margot stood her ground against the older, taller boy. "They're your stories, alright? Now, now, _give it back!_"

Margot gently held it out, pleased at her victory as the boy swiped the mask back into his grip. He quickly moved to his workstation and began fussing over it until he deemed it fixed. "I could kill you for that." He murmured, dangerously.

"Not if you want one of my stories." Margot said, not doubting that this boy could indeed kill her.

He turned back, looking confused. "What do you mean? Is this a trick? Because you'll never be able to trick me, you stupid girl."

"I am not stupid," Margot declared, taking a seat on the edge of the lake. "And you want to hear one of my stories. If you tell me who you are, I'll tell you one."

The boy eyed her, suspiciously. "That's a ridiculous proposal, _Margot Escargot._" He sneered.

"But it's _my _proposal. Do you agree or not _boy?_" she snapped back.

The boy looked still looked mistrustful but he took a seat below his workbench a few feet away from her. "If you tell anyone, I will kill you." he said, quietly.

"I know." Margot whispered.

"If you mention this to anyone, I will know."

"I know."

"I have eyes and ears everywhere around the Opera House. You will not be able to say something without me knowing."

"I know. I've felt you." Margot admitted, quietly.

"That's impossible."

"It's true," she confessed, softly. "You can watch through the walls can't you? I knew someone was watching me, I knew it."

"Not just you," the boy quickly snapped. "You're not that special."

"You watch when I tell the ballet dancers stories don't you?" Margot prodded. The boy nodded, distrustfully.

"Yes."

"Then why do you want a story if you've already heard one?" she asked, tilting her head in confusion.

The boy paused and then hung his head. "Because I want one told to me."

And strange though it was, Margot understood because sometimes she wished someone would talk to just her.

After a pause, Margot spoke, feeling a sense of companionship with the strange boy in the mask. "What's your name?"

And after another pause, the boy spoke. "Erik. My name is Erik."

* * *

_A/N: Aaaaand, there's Erik at age eleven or so. Cute right?_

* * *

Translations:

_Margot- French name meaning 'pearl'_

_Solnyshka- Russian meaning 'little sunshine'_

_Tupoy- Russian meaning 'stupid'_

_Escargot- French meaning 'snails'_


	3. Chapter Three

_A/N: This will be the last one for this week. The next update is this Wednesday._

* * *

_CHAPTER THREE_

…_Erik was, by far, the best audience I'd ever had. He listened carefully and never interrupted. He never wanted me to change my plots and he always wanted to know more about the characters. I was over the moon that someone was so interested in talking to me that I never wanted to leave. I know it's hard to imagine but I finally had another child to talk with, another soul who knew what loneliness felt like and his cave was a magical place to me._

_Erik came for me almost every night for a month and every night I would tell him a story that flowed on from the last. I'd leave before dawn and gather as much sleep as I could because my uncle would expect me awake by seven. When I told stories to the ballet corps, I had to be careful not to repeat myself, though it was tempting. My stories were often best with Erik but he was jealous. He didn't like sharing me or my tales so I kept them between us and made new ones._

_Everything was perfect until one of the washerwomen passed away from influenza. The opening required someone small enough to get into crevices and I was the perfect size for the job. Erik was already angry at having to share me with the ballet rats but at least he got to listen in every now and then. As a cleaner and washer, I would have no time to entertain the ballet rats or himself, by extension and it made him rather upset to hear…_

* * *

Spring, 1857  
_Catacombes  
Paris_

* * *

"I'll tell them not to!" Erik snapped, slamming his hands down on the work bench.

Margot rolled her eyes. "You're being silly," she said as she eyed one of the trinkets Erik had grown bored with. "The managers will never listen to you."

"But they might listen to the Opera Ghost." Erik mumbled as he began to smooth down the legs of the winged chair he was creating.

"A-ha!" Margot called, leaping from her seat. "I knew it was you!"

During Margot's time at the opera house, odd things had begun to occur. Props disappearing, curtains falling, actors tumbling off stage, banging doors that startled the living daylights out of people. Some had claimed it was her but a few incidents were simply out of Margot's skill and her alibi with the ballet rats quickly cleared her of any suspicion.

Erik hid a smile as he set the brass buttons into the reupholstered chair. "Perhaps."

"I knew it had to be you," Margot crooned. Tonight was a rare night; they'd taken a break from storytelling and were simply and awkwardly attempting normal conversation. "No one else could possibly be able."

"You didn't tell anyone, I assume." Erik said, idly, though he watched for signs of dishonesty.

Margot waved his instincts off. "Who would I tell?"

It was true; although sad to see her go, the ballet rats didn't care much for Margot outside of an entertainer and she doubted the washerwomen would care for what she had to say either.

"Touché, Margot." Erik replied, focused on getting the carved leather of his seat just right. Margot knew then to be quiet for a time since she'd quickly picked up on Erik's natural talent. He was a sculptor, painter, singer, designer and overall creator. Anything that could be made, could be made better by Erik.

When he finished, she picked up again as though she had never stopped. "But the managers still won't listen to a Ghost. Who would?"

"Someone in fear, Margot." Erik murmured, his genius brain fathoming a plan three steps too far ahead for Margot to see. "People will do much out of fear."

"I'm not sure I like where this is going Erik. But I guess I'm not going to have much of say, if I ever did." Margot said sighing. "This will be my last visit Erik. I'll be too tired to work if I stay up all night here." She'd seen her uncle nearly fall to his death the other day after spending too much of his night drinking and making funny noises with the lady next door.

"Stop saying that!" Erik growled. "It's not going to happen. You're going to stay right here."

"I can't Erik," Margot said, miserably. "If we ever talk again, I'm going to look like a washerwoman, with one of those horrible, angry faces."

Erik said nothing, merely turning away at her mention of faces. Margot remained oblivious to her callousness but Erik subtly reach for his new white mask to remind himself that it was there, a wall between him and the rest of society.

"I'm going to miss you Erik." She suddenly declared, hopping off her seat.

"You're not going anywhere." He argued.

"Shush, I'm talking!" Margot said, snappily. "I'm going to miss you Erik because you're my only friend here. And I hope that we get to talk again, even if it's not every night."

And then she put her arms around the boy with a mask and squeezed.

Erik, who had never been on the opposite end of a hug before, pushed her off. She landed with a gasp on the ground and quickly scrambled to her feet. "Erik!"

"What did you do that for?" he yelled.

"It was a hug!"

"Why?"

"Because we're friends and friends give each other hugs." Margot said as though it were obvious.

"W-Well, don't!" Erik huffed, thoroughly unnerved. To have someone so close felt awful and clammy. Margot turned away and rubbed her eyes, in a rather covert manner. Erik saw it immediately for what it was. "Margot are you…are you _crying?_"

"No I'm not." She sniffled. "Take me home Erik, I want to go to sleep."

"But-"

"I want to go home _now_." Margot stressed, grabbing her ragged nightgown and tying it up before moving toward the entrance to the caves. Erik followed, unsure as to why Margot was suddenly leaking tears but unable to let her kill herself on the traps he'd set up on the way.

* * *

Margot's first few weeks as a cleaner was rather unpleasant.

First, she was given a mop she could barely reach the top of and a heavy water filled bucket. She cleaned down the stage, she swept the wooden floor of the orchestra, she scrubbed the windows and smoothed down the velvet of the chairs. When it came to the end of her second week, she finally met Madame Renard, who was a harsh and cruel woman who detested life and children especially.

Of course, this meant that Renard gave Margot one of the biggest jobs in the Populaire.

The ballroom.

The ballroom entrance, stairs and foyer of the Opera Populaire were huge. Margot had never seen anything like it in size and with Erik's rejection fresh in her mind, it seemed impossible to handle. However, she attempted valiantly and after almost an hour of wrestling with the too-tall mop, one of the cleaning ladies took pity on her and handed her rags to clean with instead.

"Just stay on your hands and knees," she directed. "And make circular motions. When you're done with the soap, use the water to rinse and then use the dry rags to dry up the excess."

The process was simple but the sheer expanse of the Populaire was nearly impossible to work with and after almost four hours, Margot had finally covered the entire ballroom and was beginning on the steps. Along with vinegar, the lye soap she had to use was acidic on her scratched, aching palms and as she began along the marble stairs, Margot began to focus more on the pain than the actual work itself. Her back ached, her hands were beginning to blister and worst of all, the fumes made her eyes water and her skin feel tight.

It was mid-afternoon when she felt eyes on her and heard Erik's voice whisper from an alcove inside one of the enormous carved marble pillars she was working near.

"What do you want?" Margot asked, miserably.

She couldn't see but she could almost feel his frown. "Why are you crying?"

"It hurts," she whimpered, holding her hands out subtly to the pillar. His eyes were barely visible from the darkened hole in the bottom band of the carved marble pillar but she could see them tighten at the sight of her raw hands. Margot suddenly remembered his rejection of her hug on their last night and turned away, sniffling from the fumes.

"Margot? Margot, stop ignoring me. It's irritating."

"Go away," she mumbled, petulantly. "I'm working."

"Girl!" Madame Renard suddenly screeched and Margot jumped to her feet, her head dizzy from the sudden shift in altitude.

"Yes Madame?" she asked, trying to sound eager and coming out as miserable.

The shrewd woman pointed to the wooden ladder that stood precariously beside one of the walls of the ballroom. "You're the smallest and the lightest so you'll be the one to go up and dust the cornices." She ordered, snappily. "Now get to it and don't let me see you slacking off or I'll have you beaten from this Opera House before you know it."

Margot let out a sigh of fear as she straightened the ladder and slowly began to climb, her heart beating frantically in her chest. "M-Madame?"

"What is it _now _girl?" came the exasperated reply.

"Madame, what if I fall?" Margot whimpered. There was a pause and a shrill laugh.

"Then you fall," Madame Renard replied, carelessly. "And we thank the heavens that you weren't one of my more experienced cleaners."

Margot nearly froze but Madame Renard's eyes on her back forced to keep going. She took the goose feather duster from under her arm when she was nearly at the top and tried not to look down at the astoundingly high height she was currently standing at.

As she brushed away the dust and cobwebs, her fear began to take hold when the ladder creaked beneath her. She felt as though she could barely breathe and not even Madame Renard's shrill voice could make her move.

"Margot, calm down, _cherie._" Whispered a voice from beside her and Margot's eyes caught a glimpse of Erik's white mask as he sat in one of the narrow passageways that ran around the top of the ballroom.

"Erik?" she could barely move her lips she was so far up. If she fell, she would die and that would be the end of that.

"Yes _cherie, _it's me. Now calm down and take a deep breath." His voice was low and almost hypnotising as Margot followed exactly as he said.

"Erik I'm scared." She could finally murmur.

"You shouldn't be."

"I could fall."

"You won't. I'm here. And you won't fall. Do you understand _cherie?_" his voice was so soothing that Margot found herself nodding. "Now I want you to go back down this ladder and by the morning, you will never be up here again."

"P-Promise?"

"Yes _cherie._"

"Okay Erik, I b-believe you." she stuttered, slowly moving back down the ladder. She knew Erik and she knew his strength and his cleverness. She knew Erik, she convinced herself, and she knew that if only for the sake of her stories and her company, he would never let her fall.

* * *

Madame Renard was furious and complained to Monsieur LeFevre who in turn scolded Uncle Franck, who in turn disciplined Margot but nothing any one of them had to say on the matter could make her go back up that dreadful ladder.

"Ferrand, if she cannot work, she has no place here." Monsieur LeFevre said in the main apartment. Margot listened through the door as Uncle promised to knock some sense into her and soon enough the door opened, revealing an absent LeFevre and an angry Uncle.

"You little brat," he snapped, stalking toward her. "You've been living the high life with my brother too long, you spoiled twit! You will work Margot and you will go to Madame Renard tomorrow with apologies and beg for another chance!"

She went to bed that night, exhausted from crying and with her hands burning, with fresh bruises on her arms and the back of her head from where Uncle had gotten aggressive.

It was almost a surprise when Erik came for her that night.

She hadn't seen him since she started working and with the hard days, she'd been lonely for a visit, though still hurt that he wouldn't let her hug him.

"Margot, are you alright?" Erik asked, quietly as they traversed the long passages together.

She nodded, tiredly. "I have to go back tomorrow Erik. Uncle will make me leave if I don't."

"None of that will come to pass. Now come, I've got something for you." he said, confidently.

After a week of cold, harsh, painful, frightening reality, the sight of the candlelit cave was magical. Margot began to sit on the stone rocks near the lake again but Erik guided her toward the winged chair which now sat, made of beautifully carved brown leather, proudly in the corner.

"It's so comfortable Erik!" she said, surprised as she bounced on the seat. He smiled slightly as he pulled a tray toward them from his bench. "What's all this?"

He brought a finger to his lips and slowly began to mix the odd looking materials together into a creamy substance which he gentle spread across her blistered palms. It didn't sting surprisingly, but remained cool and soothing as he wrapped bandages around each of her hands carefully. Margot knew better than to assume it was entirely for her; Erik's keen eyes told her that she was indeed an experiment and that her reactions would no doubt be recorded somewhere inside that brilliant mind for future use.

"It feels nice…" she hummed, dreamy with relief. "What is it?"

"…It's probably best you don't know…" he mumbled as soon as he fingers were bound with the silken bandages.

"Thankyou Erik." Margot whispered, feeling drowsy. She'd never fallen asleep down here before and part of her wondered what would happen if she did. Would Erik keep her down here as he always wanted? Or would she awake to find herself in her bed, all the better for it?

"Sleep Margot, it'll all be fixed when you wake up." He murmured and suddenly Margot found her eyes drifting shut as she fell into a deep sleep amongst the candles.

* * *

Erik was the first to admit his reasoning was neither entirely self-serving nor altruistic.

As he snuck through the halls into the Opera House manager's office, he pondered the separate parts of him that considered this an appropriate act.

The first part was in anger over Margot and how close she had come to death today. The fools in these offices, he thought, would rather see a child fall to her death than suffer a spiderweb during one of their operas. It was utterly ridiculous and the sight of her red raw hands had confirmed his suspicions that the cleaning ladies were working with toxins and acids. While he didn't care much for the cleaning ladies, he had scheduled a stop for Madame Renard's rooms before this trip and had taken great delight in switching her normal teapot for one laced with the same toxin that had scarred Margot's hands.

She would be out of the Opera House, if not dead, by the tomorrow's end.

Regardless, part of his reasoning for the late night excursion to the manager's office was to do with his reaction to Margot's hug and his unreasonable guilt concerning her tears afterward.

Despite the friendship he felt with the little girl, he had to remind himself constantly that she was nowhere near his level of intelligence or isolation. She did not think through her words or actions which his only other acquaintance, Mme Giry was constantly doing which pleased him somewhat but it did mean that when she wrapped her arms around his neck, it was incredibly difficult not to take it as a sign that she was attempting to strangle him.

Thinking back on it, if he focused on the little things, like the smoothness of her cheek against his, the soft embrace of her hands on his back, the innocent smile she gave beforehand, he found himself aching for another of Margot's hugs, though he would have to be better prepared next time.

Opera Ghosts, he reminded himself as he stepped out of a passageway into Monsieur LeFevre's office, did not stammer and push away hugs like a child.

Which brought him to the other reason for his late night trip.

He had been leaving notes in Monsieur LeFevre's office every so often for months now, even before Margot had arrived. Each was a courteous welcome to his Opera House and a reminder that if things were to run smoothly, it would be best if Monsieur LeFevre indulged him on certain points of management.

Often they were dismissed but lately, in accordance with some of his more damaging pranks, LeFevre was eying the notes more carefully than normal.

Tonight would test if his stunts and notes had successfully positioned Monsieur LeFevre where Erik wished, a place where he could manipulate the manager at will. Positioning the letter on LeFevre's desk just so, Erik ran through the note's contents for the hundredth time:

_Monsieur LeFevre,_

_It has come to my attention that you are allowing children to take the brunt of work which should be allotted for more experienced professionals. I shall not have my operas ruined because of a drooling toddler, Monsieur. See to it that such individuals are reorganised into rolls more befitting their skills. I find that in the case Mademoiselle Ferrand, something into which she can grow would be greatly beneficial, wouldn't you say? The costume department perhaps?_

_Should the girl not be removed and placed there, first thing in the morning monsieur, it will be to the great misfortune of that shrill cleaning fox. We shall speak later of my salary for bestowing such advice. _

_Until then, I remain_

_Your ever obedient servant,_

_O.G._

Tomorrow, Erik thought, whirling out of the room, leaving the door locked from the inside behind him. Tomorrow, they would see if Monsieur LeFevre was ready to pay his ghost.

* * *

Margot woke to find herself back in her bed in Uncle's apartments, her hand still bound in silky bandages. She slid on a pair of work gloves that had shrunk enough to fit over her hands and dressed quickly, wondering if Erik was right about not having to go back to Madame Renard.

She fretted over what might happen if she didn't go back and mused over what Anna would have done before fading quickly. Anna wouldn't even be in this mess, Margot thought bitterly. She would've climbed that ladder fearlessly and she would've used it to beat Madame Renard out of the Opera House.

However as she fried the sweet toast her Uncle and she were used to having for breakfast, a knock on the door disrupted the morning's routine.

"Well," Uncle grunted. "Go get it, girl."

Margot hopped out of her chair and slowly opened the door, revealing a rather pale Monsieur LeFevre.

"_Petite, _I have news concerning your employment," he said, shakily, dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief. Margot frowned.

"_Oui_ Monsieur?" she echoed, curiously.

"I-It has come to my attention that children make m-mistakes, no, I mean, they should not be responsible for such areas of my- _the _Opera House." Monsieur LeFevre stuttered, looking exhausted and fearful.

Margot tried to remember how Mama would have handled the shaking Monsieur and brought forward the rickety chair she ate breakfast in. He collapsed into it thankfully.

"What's going on Monsieur?" Uncle Franck asked, his portly face confused. "I thought Madame Renard needed someone as small as Margot?"

"Yes, yes, well now Madame Renard is in need of someone with a medical degree, isn't she?" Monsieur LeFevre snapped, sweating profusely. "I ignored it this morning and now Berangere Renard is a mute." LeFevre leant forward, covertly. "You know what the rumours are lately?"

"_Oui _monsieur," Uncle Franck responded in a quiet tone Margot did not believe him capable. "The ghost. My new hand, Buquet, said he saw it the other day, hiding in the alcoves, wearing a mask."

"The rumours are true Ferrand," LeFevre claimed in panicked undertones. "I receive letters from him weekly and with everything that's been happening, what, with what happened to Renard-"

"What happened to Madame Renard?" Margot asked, half curious, half frightened. _Erik what did you do?_

"She woke this morning perfectly fine and by the time she was dressed and fed and ready for work, she could not speak and her face had broken out with blisters!" LeFevre claimed in a gossipy whisper.

"_Mon Dieu_," Uncle breathed. "We are haunted indeed Monsieur."

"And what's more, he asks for money!" LeFevre sighed.

"Money?" Uncle repeated. "What need does a damn ghost have with francs?"

"He wishes for a salary of 20,000 francs a fortnight," LeFevre said, before realising in whose company he was in and straightening. "For dispensing his advice and avoiding his usual pranks."

"A ghost," Margot echoed, breathily. _Erik is a ghost now. Good Lord._

"You do not intend to pay him, Monsieur?" Franck demanded.

Monsieur LeFevre stood and quickly made his way to the door. "I've said too much already. I have much to think on but I intend to have your niece moved to the costume department this afternoon. It is," he glanced around the roof of the apartment. "another's bidding. Good day Ferrand."

"And you sir." Uncle Franck said as LeFevre left. There was a pause before Uncle spoke again. "Well consider yourself lucky Margot. You were a threat to the Opera Ghost's operas by the sound of things and he _didn't _kill you." he chuckled, shaking his head and getting back to breakfast.

"Kill me?" Margot breathed, eyes wide. "Would he really?"

"_Mais oui, _one of my stagehands disappeared after he mixed up the paint tins." Uncle Franck turned back to his morning paper, chuckling and wondering how he would spin the story to his stagehands this morning.

Margot merely looked down at her hands and smiled.

* * *

Translations:

_Renard- French meaning 'fox'_

_Cherie- French term of endearment meaning 'darling, dear'_

_Mon Dieu- French meaning 'My God'_

_Mais oui- French meaning 'But of course'_


	4. Chapter Four

_A/N: So I lied. It's Sunday and I'm updating. Sue me. And here's Christine!_

* * *

_CHAPTER FOUR_

…_the opera ghost asked for 20,000 francs each fortnight, except for when Monsieur LeFevre would not pay, when he would demand 40,000. Erik soon had more gold than anyone under the Populaire's roof and when it came to spending, he poured much of it into his materials and his home. When I came to his home by the lake each night, it was suddenly more furnished and elaborate than ever before and my new station allowed me to meet Erik almost every evening._

_My work with the costumers was far less laborious and I began with basic embroidery and moved up. I often came home with bleeding fingers and my hands were never the same after my days of cleaning but I was happy and so very grateful that Erik had helped me, if only to serve himself. I worried about the missing stagehand and Madame Renard but I was a child, Christine. I could not think further than their disappearance and Erik's hand in it._

_Though I considered Erik my friend, he was still reluctant to let me touch him in any way. When he gave me a new night robe for my birthday, the most he allowed was a handshake through his gloves. He was still mistrustful and he was still far happier playing pranks and disrupting the Populaire. We concocted stories of the ghost and his death together and I told them to the ballet rats, who scattered it around the theatre. Uncle seemed to grow used to me and Erik was the most wonderful friend I'd ever had. By all accounts, times were happy._

_Months turned into seasons which turned into years and by the time I was beginning to leave childhood behind, something happened which changed everything. In 1861, a small brunette child arrived on the steps of the Populaire, ready to learn ballet at the dying wish of her father. You arrived, Christine, and from the moment I saw you, I hated you…_

* * *

Spring, 1861  
_Costume Department  
Paris_

* * *

Margot watched with unbridled annoyance as Madame Giry toured the Opera House with the new girl tucked under arm. The ballet rats were in a tizzy over her and even Uncle had been impressed by her roots. Christine Daae, the only daughter of the famous violinist. Uncle had heard him play in the Populaire before and claimed him to be of exceptional talent.

Despite her musicality, Margot merely saw a better dressed, cleaner, prettier version of herself when she first walked through the doors of the Populaire and she hated it.

Everyone seemed to accept Christine into their folds, the other girls were eager to befriend the pretty brunette and explain to her the rules and routines of the Opera House. No one had attempted this with Margot. _Probably because nothing horrible rhymes with Christine. _She thought, bitterly as she viciously threaded her needle through the mountainous fabric intended for the night's performance.

The Prima Donna was a frustrating woman who knew her time on stage was limited and was doing her best to make things difficult. Margot had resewn this gown three times, attempting to make it sit flat against the singer's curves and yet it was never tight enough and when it was, it was too tight.

"I bet _Christine_ could make it sit flat." She mumbled, angrily. The costume mistress rolled her eyes at Margot's mumblings and thwapped her across the back of the head.

"Enough of your muttering, Margot, get this done and give it to Madame La Frond, non?" she ordered and Margot began to stitch quicker.

Margot had become quite the little seamstress in the four years since she'd begun working; she was now given assistant work to do, smaller pieces of little consequence and parts of larger projects that the mistresses needed help to finish. As a matter of fact, she'd just finished fitting and designing a pageboy costume for this evening's production of _Gabriella._

As she quickly finished the bodice once again, her eyes flitted back to where Madame Giry and Christine Daae had passed by the doorway of the workshop and she refocused on her work. There was an honest reason that Margot had been trying to deny as to why she was so upset over the little brrunette's arrival.

From the moment she stepped through the doors, she had aroused the curiosity of a certain phantom and Margot was jealous beyond all belief that her only friend was so consumed with discovering all he could about Christine Daae.

He'd confessed some time ago about his past and his need to know everything about everything and so it hadn't come as any special shock when he'd admitted that he'd brought her down to his home, initially, so he could bully information out of Margot as to who she was and where she'd come from.

Which meant that his fascination with Christine should not have irked Margot as much as it did but God help her, she was furious.

At eight years old, just a year older than Margot had been when she'd first arrived, Christine had captured Erik's attention more than anyone else who had ever passed through the Populaire. If it had just been an initial curiosity, Margot would not have minded but it had been nearly three weeks.

Margot was also currently neglecting to tell herself that part of the reason she wanted Erik's attention back was the fact that at sixteen, even with his ridiculous mask, he was as filled out as most men and much taller than her and generally very, _very _handsome. He'd finally ordered her to bring him back some of the fashion posters they used in costuming as reference and created himself not only a full, luxurious wardrobe but also a proper haircut.

Erik, with his naturally tanned skin and flashing green eyes, was now without a doubt the most beautiful man Margot had ever seen and despite her issues in confessing it to herself, she had developed a small crush on the boy with the mask.

And despite the immense gap in age, Erik seemed to have developed a crush on Christine.

He'd been angry when she'd mentioned it a few days ago. "She's pretty, Margot but I'm hardly the type to admire a child. There's something untainted about her. She's not like us, she's not spoiled." He'd explained and Margot had tried not show her hurt at being called 'spoiled' by her friend. "Her eyes are so innocent and trusting. There's something about her and I want to know what it is."

Of course, it had only grown worse when he'd followed her into the chapel one evening and found her lighting a candle and singing a hymn to her dead father.

_A hymn,_ Margot thought viciously. As though the child had known what that might do to Erik's mind.

Margot had listened for nearly four years as Erik sang, hummed, composed and thumped on the keys of his purchased and pieced together organ. She'd been there when he'd found inspiration and when he'd lost and when he'd been ready to unveil his creations. She had marvelled over his vocal skill and how beautiful he sounded when he sang.

But most of all, she'd been there when he frustrated over finding the other half of his songs, the missing half which would let them really fly.

And in Christine, he'd mentioned excitedly. He thought he'd found it.

"You should have heard her Margot," he murmured in her ear while she worked. His talents with ventriloquy had grown impressively over the years and they now had conversations while she worked. Despite the side effect of the costume mistresses thinking Margot was thinking aloud, these conversations were something to look forward to, particularly if she hadn't seen Erik the previous night.

"She's rough, I'll admit but there is talent in her blood. She could be the most amazing soprano-" He continued and Margot grew so upset she almost sliced right through her finger.

"Margot, are you alright?" Madame Tenau asked, surprised as Margot squealed and recoiled her finger.

"Yes Madame, I'm sorry." She quickly replied, heart beating fast as she stared at the material cutter, distrustfully.

"Well then," Tenau said, after assessing her as uninjured. "Get back to work and for heaven's sakes, _be careful."_

"Yes Madame." After that, Erik had disappeared and for once, Margot was pleased for it.

* * *

Erik had thought he knew all there was to know about Margot Ferrand but as it turned out, she could still surprise him.

He'd thought that the young Daae girl would garner sympathy from Margot, considering the similarities between their situations but all Margot seemed to have for the girl was disdain. He could hardly puzzle out why since the tiny brunette had done little in the Populaire so far but he simply chalked it up to odd girl behaviour as he was used to doing where Margot was concerned.

_Perhaps she's upset that I'm missing out nightly talks, _he wondered as he watched through the grate in the chapel wall. The young Christine knelt before he father's picture and lit a candle for him.

In which case, Erik thought, it would be a bad idea to inform her of what he was really doing with his time. Though he enjoyed his talks with her and the stories she told him night after night, Margot was not enough to sustain the musical side of him, which wanted someone to converse with also. He'd tried but had simply found that Margot was neither skilled nor mature enough to keep up with him and had reminded himself that she was only eleven and barely breaching young adulthood as it was.

And despite the far younger age of the Daae girl, Erik was sure that her raw skill could one day match his and would be the last piece concerning his music.

But how to get her to trust him enough to let him lead her into his music?

He hadn't needed to lure Margot or Antoinette. Giry had come to him and he'd simply taken Margot, ignorant in his youth as to how to get what he wanted.

But the same tactics were loath to work on Christine. He'd meant what he said to Margot earlier today, the girl was far too naive and gentle for him to get anything other than fear out of her should he bring her into the caves. Margot had been tougher at that age; she had a backbone and cheek that surpassed anything he could've expected from a seven year old.

Christine would no doubt collapse with terror if she were dragged underground by a masked man.

No, Erik mused idly as Christine began her nightly hymn for her father. No, he'd have be clever and careful with Christine.

When she ceased her singing, Christine pressed a kiss against the photograph. "Good night Papa. I'll keep listening and one day the Angel will come like you said."

As she scurried back up into the Populaire, Erik let a slow smile cross his face. _An angel? Now, that had promise…_

* * *

Christine knelt in the chapel, her father's portrait illuminated by a single candle as she sang one of their favourite songs. She told herself to stop her sniffling which was ruining the music but eventually she stopped altogether.

The music wasn't right with only one voice. Papa would usually add his violin and the music would flow beautifully but it sounded so sad with only her. It was a reminder that she was now officially alone in the strange Populaire, under the keen eyes of the ballet mistress, Madame Giry who had taken her in.

Christine was decent at ballet and it had always brought her Papa such joy to see her dance.

"Papa, I just want to make you proud of me," she sniffled quietly in the dank chapel. The candlewax dripped onto the stone as she continued to remember her father's face and his pale skin as he succumbed to illness.

_You will not be alone, little one, _he'd said in a wheezy voice which was so unlike him. _I will send someone to guide you, an angel of music so you shall never be alone._

She kept this hope alive in her chest and refused to share it with anyone who might torment her for it. An angel, Papa said. An Angel of Music would come and keep her from her loneliness.

_But it has been weeks Papa, _she thought, watching his kind dark eyes in the portrait. _And he has not appeared to me._

At first, she'd thought that perhaps Papa would come back as angel. It seemed fitting, since he loved music so when he was alive. But now, her hopes were fading fast that her Angel would ever appear.

She'd come down here, hoping that she would remind her Papa to send someone, so he would not forget as he resided in paradise. "Papa, where is he?" she whispered sadly. "I have been singing for weeks."

_Perhaps not enough, _she thought, miserably. Christine took a deep breath and began the song she knew so well again, her voice rusty but able. She managed to get half way before pausing, when she suddenly felt eyes upon her.

She stood and turned to the staircase which lay empty before her. "Hello? Is anyone there?" she called but there was no answer. But there was definitely a presence. Christine paused and whispered. "Angel?"

_Yes child?_

She nearly wept with relief at the low, baritone voice. Christine turned around frantically. "Angel is it you? Have you come?"

_I have child._

"Where are you? I cannot see you!" she asked, feeling frightened.

_You must close your eyes to me. I cannot be seen by them. You must learn to see with your voice._

Christine shut her eyes obediently. "Yes Angel. Oh, please, tell me, is my Papa happy? Is he safe in heaven with you?"

_He is indeed safe child. He has sent me to train you. He wants you to sing._

"He does?" she wavered. "I thought…I thought he wanted me to dance…"

_Dance on the surface, dear child. _The Angel said, his voice echoing around the chapel. _But down here, you will sing._

"Yes Angel." She replied, her voice strung with eagerness. "How can you train me if I cannot see you?"

_You will see with your voice. Sing for me, Christine. Sing and I will guide you._

Christine paused, the pressure of her Angel's eyes on her as she started the tune Papa loved. It sounded sad again until the Angel of Music added his lovely low voice, the richness enough to support them both as he lead her along the high notes and scales.

Christine could hardly believe it but with such skill? He must be an Angel and he must have been sent by her dear Papa! It was the only explanation! She put her heart into her song for the first time in weeks and though hardly as capable as the Angel, it held and grew louder.

They continued for nearly an hour before Christine could no longer sing and the Angel sighed, disappointed. _It is time to go._

"What? No, Angel please no!" she cried out, her eyes flying open to see no one before her.

_I must. _His voice was firm. _You must rest, my little singer. We will continue tomorrow night._

"You will be here?" she asked, trustingly.

_Of course child. I will be here._

And then silence as Christine finally mustered the strength to go to bed, all the while eager for tomorrow's evening.

* * *

Half a week later, Margot had just finished with the Prima Donna's gown for the last time when she heard them for the first time.

She hadn't spoken to Erik in days except for a short mention that he would be unavailable for the next few weeks due to his other affairs. Margot had accepted that to mean that he was busily extorting money from M. LeFevre or expanding one of his artworks in his cave and left it alone. But it weighed on her. Erik was the only person she spoke to outside of the costume mistresses who were her fellow employees and bosses, not her friends.

She'd begun to feel a longing for her old home, the manor in the countryside of Versailles with its rolling green hills and peaked ceilings. It had probably become old and rickety from abandonment but Margot felt homesick for the love of her family and her parents.

She'd heard of Christine's devotion to her father from the ballet rats who she still occasionally told stories to, of how she lit a candle for him every night. While her ire at the brunette had yet to cool, she admitted that perhaps it was what she needed.

After finishing the beading on the bodice of the Prima Donna's gown, having finally made it sit flush against her skin- though from what Margot heard, the singer was about to be replaced by a Spanish soprano and it would have to be redone _again_- Margot had carefully put her things away and taken a candle from the workshop to guide her down to the Populaire chapel.

Few visited the chapel and therefore its passage and general space was cramped at best but by the time Margot arrived at the top the stairs, she knew it was already occupied.

And exactly by whom.

She sat on the stairs and listened as Erik guided Christine's tiny tinkling voice through one of the songs of _The Marriage of Figaro, _her eyes wide. They sounded beautiful, rough, but lovely at the same time. Christine was very, very rusty but Erik was right, there was raw talent in her blood.

"Was that good Angel?" Christine asked innocently.

"_It can be better._" Margot knew the tone of Erik's ventriloquy well.

Christine was not coming down to the chapel to pray for her father. Erik was giving her lessons. His 'affairs' he so desperately had to attend to were not monetary. They were artistic and soulful. Because in spite of the part of Margot which was angry at having been lied to, she felt understanding that Erik's chaotic mind and spirit needed such cohesion and music to soothe him.

And she felt miserable that her friend had moved on to someone who could provide him with what he needed.

* * *

Erik arrived a week later to find Margot asleep in her bed.

Which he found odd considering he'd left her a note explicitly telling her that he was coming for her tonight.

"Margot, wake up." He ordered, feeling impatient. Christine was too young to work every night which meant that after two weeks, he'd been forced to install a new routine. It was the first moment he'd had to spare since he'd started her training and he wanted to tell Margot all about it.

Her eyes fluttered open but instead of her usual surprise and joy at seeing him, the cold grey irises met him with disdain. "Go away Erik, I'm sleeping." She mumbled, turning over.

Erik frowned. This was…unlike Margot. "What do you mean, you're sleeping? I left you a note, remember?"

"Erik I've had to deal with the Populaire's new soprano all day, I don't want to deal with yours tonight. Leave me alone." She growled, ineffectively. The boy in the mask tore the covers off her sleeping form and waited for her to sit up in indignation. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed. "I'm sleeping _go away!_"

"So you know." Erik stated in a flat tone. He'd been prepared for Margot to feel irritated that he'd been absent for so long but not for her to know that he'd been spending the time grooming the girl Margot felt nothing but unrestrained annoyance for.

She huffed, her brown hair mussed from sleep as she yanked the covers around her. "Yes. And I don't care. Go teach the little _duraka_ how to sing if you want." Margot grumbled, snuggling into her bed.

Erik ripped the covers back again. "What's that supposed to mean? Tell me the truth." He said, his voice taking on a threatening edge.

"It means that I don't _care!"_ she screeched and then flinched when her Uncle's snores paused before picking up again at a louder tone. "_Uhodi!_"

"Not until you tell me why you're acting this way." Erik growled. He was fed up with the complexities of Margot Ferrand and he wanted to understand why she was behaving this way.

"You're _my _friend." She blurted out suddenly looking exhausted and sad. "And now you're _her _Angel."

Erik frowned, not liking how much Margot knew. "Were you spying Margot?"

"No!" she snapped. "I was going down to pray for my parents and I heard you two. Just go away Erik, go play with your new toy."

And suddenly Margot made a little bit of sense. "You're jealous." He preened.

"I am not!"

"Of course you are, you silly twit." Erik said, sternly. "I am in charge here, this is _my _Opera House and if I want to take Christine and make her into a soprano fit for my music _I _will. And you have no business judging me for it."

"Well if we're not friends anymore," Margot invented wildly. "Then I'm not telling you any of my stories anymore!"

"You will do what I say _when _I say." He snapped back, angrily.

"Not anymore!" she hissed. "You go have your fun with your music and your precious little airhead and I'll share my stories with everyone _but you!"_

"If you do, I will be very angry, Margot." Erik said, silkily. "And you will not be safe from my wrath."

Nearly in tears, Margot rolled on her side and turned away from him. "Go ahead."

When she looked back a few seconds later, Erik had vanished and she let herself cry.

* * *

_A/N: Don't judge either of them too harshly. Do you remember when you were a kid and felt as though you might be losing a friend? And keep in mind, Erik hasn't done anything wrong, really. Margot is just very young. By the way, I forgot a pair of translations from the last chapter so look below to see svolochi and privet._

_Also, I'd really love some reviews so if you like it or hate it, if you'd spend a few minutes typing into the box below, I'd be really thankful!_

* * *

Translations:

_Svolochi!- Rusian meaing 'bastards'!_

_Privet- Russsian meaning 'hello'._

_Uhodi!- Russian meaning 'Go away!'_

_Duraka- Russian meaning 'silly or fool'_


	5. Chapter Five

_A/N: I'm on a writing bug at the moment so enjoy it while it lasts! I've been looking at the Traffic Graph and I keep seeing all the countries and visitors and it's really…weird._

_I mean, wonderful but weird. I know you're all there but none of you will review?_

_Please drop a line in the box below, I really would like to hear from you!_

* * *

_CHAPTER FIVE_

…_It was the longest Erik and I had ever gone without speaking in nearly five years. I did not see Erik but I could often feel eyes upon me. I made sure to ignore them as much as possible and I told story after story after story to the ballet rats. Tales which had once belonged only to Erik and I, were suddenly public knowledge and oh, how he hated it._

_For five months, my designs came apart, my possessions went missing, my stitches were clumsy and I was disciplined by my Uncle harshly after the costume mistress complained to him. I was miserable under the wrath of the phantom but I suppose I was alive._

_And in turn, I hated you, Christine, because without even knowing it, you'd taken my greatest friend from me and I was suffering for it. But then came that day in spring, when the ground was thawed and blossoming and we spoke for the first time, do you remember? It was in the cemetery, near your family's mausoleum? I had come to get away from Erik and spend time with my parents. _

_They were buried in Versailles of course but there was a couple who had died in Paris, unrelated to me, but their headstones read M. et Mme. Ferrand. I used to pretend it was my parents' graves…_

* * *

Summer, 1861  
_Sainte-Marie Cimetiere  
Paris, France_

* * *

"Mama, I'm sick of Paris." Margot murmured to the grave on her right. "Nothing here is good. I thought I had a home but Erik just grew bored of me. I miss him."

The summer breeze blew the trees and tousled the grass surrounding the cemetery. It was a beautiful day, with a full sun and flowers blooming in the hollows of tombstones and graves. Everything appeared peaceful and it reminded Margot of her home in Versailles more than anything.

If she closed her eyes, she could recall Papa lifting her onto his shoulder and Mama helping her to spell out her name. She remembered picnics along the creek that ran across their property and running through the rose gardens surrounding the manor.

"I wish I could just go back. I don't want to be here any longer." Margot confessed, quietly. Uncaring of the dirt beneath her, Margot had curled up at the feet of the graves, her coat snuggled in tightly around her as she carefully plucked the weeds and briars that grew over the tombstones and hollows.

Margot knew that while she blamed most of her recent misfortune on Christine and Erik, she had a hand in her misery too. She shouldn't have argued with Erik and she shouldn't have spread their stories so carelessly. While the ballet rats-including Christine herself- had agreed they were her best so far, the tales seemed cheapened afterwards and Margot couldn't bring herself to continue the adventures of Anna, who now seemed like a fraud to her.

It was all a mistake, spoken out of anger. Erik was- had been- her friend and she shouldn't have thrown that away over something as ridiculous as Christine Daae.

Margot's anger at the Daae girl was beginning to fade, replaced with regret. She missed Erik and having him mess with her things and hurt her like this was terrifying and hurtful. She wished for her friend back but Margot was hardly as gullible as Christine: Angels did not arrive from heaven to grant wishes and desires no matter how much you pray for them.

Margot, lacking Erik around as a companion, had begun talking to her parents, pretending at night when she was alone or at work when she was isolated from the rest, that they were there and interested in talking about her day and what had happened to her. While she was good at hiding it, a few people had caught her talking to herself and _Margot Escargot _was beginning to look mad.

"Papa, I want to go home." Margot whimpered, exhausted from her life at the Populaire which seemed to be descending from bad to worse.

"M-Margot?"

The tiny voice was enough to make Margot want to scream.

"What do _you _want?" she asked, meanly as Christine fidgeted behind her.

"I-I'm sorry but how do you get t-to the Opera House from here?" she asked, softly.

Margot turned and eyed the pink clad eight year old with disdainful eyes before jabbing a finger to her left. "The exit is that way. Turn left and you'll be there soon." Her voice sounded flat to her own ears but she could hardly muster up politeness to the girl who had consumed Erik's time and attention from her.

"Oh. Thankyou."

But she didn't leave.

Margot rolled her eyes. "What?"

"Are they your parents?" Christine asked, curiously.

Margot considered lying and making her leave but she knew that these people were not her mother and father and stood instead. "No. They're just corpses."

"Oh." Christine shuffled on her toes in a manner very unbecoming of a ballerina. "Do you talk to them?"

"No. I talk to the air instead." Margot snapped, brushing off the dirt from her coat. "What does it matter to you?"

"O-Oh nothing." Christine squeaked. "I-I talk to my father sometimes."

_I know, _Margot wanted to say. _You ask your 'Angel' to pass messages to him in heaven. _"So?"

"Does it make you feel better?"

Margot felt like tearing her hair out but there was honest curiosity in the question so she turned and stared down at the little girl from her superior height. "No. It doesn't. Why do you care?"

Christine blushed and it occurred to Margot just how adorable she really was. "Because it doesn't make me feel better either." She confessed, quietly. "I wanted to know if I was doing it wrong."

"You can't talk _wrong._" Margot said, scathingly. "You just _do._"

"But I don't think he gets the messages." Christine bit her lip, unsure of how much to confess. "I don't think he hears them. I think the Ange- I mean, _someone_ stops them."

Margot felt some of her frustration blow away. She had imagined Erik and Christine bonding over music but as it much of a comfort her Angel was, it was obvious that Christine did not take the same friendship Margot had in Erik's music. She was still lonely and horrible though it was, it made Margot feel a little better.

Margot sighed internally. "He hears them. They can't not hear them. My father said the dead hear everything we do." It was after one of her mother's song birds had died that Margot had been taught about death from her father.

Christine looked appeased by the thought. "Are you going back to the Opera House now?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Can I…May I walk with you?"

Margot rolled her eyes and set off. "If you must."

* * *

After that day in the cemetery, Christine began to seek Margot out after her rehearsals with the other ballerinas. She often stood by the costume department, waiting for Margot to go on break or visited her when she was fixing outfits on stage in the middle of rehearsals.

Christine would rarely say much unless Margot responded and because the little girl's questions were so innocent, Margot could rarely deny her an answer. The ballerinas thought it was charming and told Margot stories about how Christine would look for dresses in her own wardrobe that matched Margot's. Though she was still unsure about having Christine as her little shadow, in the eyes of the Populaire, Christine had done nothing to upset Margot and so she allowed her to follow her around while she worked.

Christine was thrilled though Margot felt sure that this would encourage Erik's ire. She wondered if perhaps it was Erik's doing, to rub in her face Christine's talent but all signs pointed to the obvious yet impossible: Christine had taken a liking to Margot and was loath to leave her be.

Gradually, after a multitude of conversations revolving around the opera house and the ballet rats and a story or two of Margot's, the older girl began to feel at ease with the Daae child. Christine had an awfully unobtrusive way of making people adore her and Margot found herself to be no exception once Christine latched on to her.

"Margot, what is that called?" she asked nearly a week after the cemetery.

"Velvet, Christine." Margot said, feeling half amused and half exasperated by the constant questions. And on top of those feelings, she was ever so slightly fearful that her hatred toward the girl had softened too much.

"Oh. Is it very soft?" They were seated at Margot's bench in the costume workshop, working on the velvet sleeves for the new soprano's dress. _Gabriella _had finished and the newest opera set to play was a Mozart composition, _The Magic Flute._

"Yes Christine."

"What are you doing to it?" the little girl asked, her enormous dark eyes just barely peeking over the top of the bench. Margot tried to hide a small smile.

"I'm making it beautiful." Margot cast a small glance at the girl and almost beyond her will, she leant over and showed Christine the jewels she was threading along the arms. "I'm setting these stones in the sleeves so that when she moves, she will glitter."

Christine gasped and her eyes traced the semi-precious stones in wonder. "Really? All of them will go on?"

"Yes _solnyshka?" _Margot said, exasperated.

"Margot?"

"Yes?"

"What does that mean?"

Margot sighed as she finished the jewels in a leafy pattern down the sides of the velvet sleeves. "It means sunshine. You're too perky sometimes Christine."

Christine smiled brightly. "I've never been sunshine before." Margot giggled slightly as she began to trim the threads from the sleeve to make it perfect. "Margot?"

"_Yes, solnyshka?"_

"You should laugh more often," Christine admitted, sweetly. "You look pretty when you do."

Margot paused and smiled slightly, admitting to herself silently that the destruction of her and Erik's friendship was on Margot, rather than the ridiculously innocent Christine. It hurt but she could understand her former friend's need to take comfort in something so unspoiled as Christine. Erik had been right. There was something about her.

"Thankyou Christine." She said slowly before getting back to work.

"Margot?" the girl's voice was timid.

"Yes?"

"Can you call me _solneeshkah?_" Christine's lovely French tongue couldn't wrap around the syllables her mother had taught her and Margot laughed at the pronunciation.

"_Da, solnyshka._"

* * *

Christine attempted the scales again but without the Angel to guide her, the notes felt creaky and tinny. She took a deep breath and tried again and again but despite her Angel's instructions, she couldn't not carry the tune by herself.

"I'm sorry Angel." She said, nearly weeping. She hated disappointing the Angel, who was such a wonderful teacher.

_Try again child. _He sounded upset tonight, more so than he usually would if she failed a scale.

Christine began again but before she'd even reached the highest note, her voice cracked and she fell to her knees, ashamed at having failed before her tutor. "I'm so sorry Angel, I cannot."

_Again Christine. Do you want to learn to sing properly? _He snapped, angrily.

Christine could not reply above her tears and after a few minutes, she heard him take a breath and release in a frustrated sigh. _Christine, you must answer me._

"Y-Yes Angel?"

_Why have you been visiting the seamstresses?_

Christine blushed and looked down, though her eyes were closed. "I was talking with Margot." She confessed, unsure of why the Angel cared. "She's a seamstress and she's pretty and she tells the _best _stories!"

_Oh? Are stories worth the time you could be practising?_

Christine bowed her head further. "Please don't make me stop seeing Margot. I-I like her."

_Why?_

"B-Because she seemed so sad when I got here Angel. And now she smiles when she sees me and she calls me-"

_Solnyshka. I have heard. _The Angel said, sounding half amused and half upset.

"It means sunshine. Margot takes care of me. She even stopped one of the ballerinas from picking on me the other day." Christine bit her lip. Margot, everyone had told her when she first arrived, was an odd girl but kind and very entertaining. She was slim and averagely tall with straight mousy hair that she normally wore in a braid but despite that, her face was very pretty and her skin very pale.

Christine had been in awe of her and how she had woven a tale out of thin air during her first week at the Populaire. The older ballerinas said that she'd lived on the street for a while and had no parents, so Christine felt naturally drawn to the older seamstress.

But Margot hadn't seemed to pay much attention to Christine then even though the little girl had so desperately wanted to be her friend that she even snuck after Margot when she visited the cemetery. She was strange and seemed sad but now, Christine thought happily, she called her sunshine and she even smiled during their talks.

_Did she now? _The Angel asked, thoughtfully. _Christine, I want to mould you into the most beautiful singer this Opera House has ever seen. But I need your dedication and I need your voice. Will you give it to me?_

"May I still see Margot?" Christine asked, quietly.

The Angel paused. _You may._

"Then you can have all of me, Angel, I promise!" she swore, eagerly.

* * *

Erik left Christine in the chapel that night feeling conflicted over Margot's new place in his student's life. Margot had made no mistake in expressing her dislike of Christine but perhaps she had had a change of heart? If so, why hadn't she apologised yet? Asked him to return?

It wasn't as though he weren't listening.

It had been months now since Christine had arrived at the Populaire and he'd begun teaching her voice to blossom. It had been months since he'd led Margot down into his cave and he was sure that she missed it as much as he, reluctantly, missed having the company.

His visits to Christine were limited to the chapel as the Angel of Music and now, his contact with Antoinette was solely through his notes as the Opera Ghost. Margot had been the only person he'd had contact with as himself and he missed her presence in his home.

He felt unsure as to whether that was a good thing or not; after all human interaction was foreign but useful and Margot had been something like a friend. Though he had withheld his lessons with Christine from her, Margot had no business questioning him and her retaliation had been, aptly put, _below the belt._

He'd had to listen for months as all the stories she'd conjured for him and him alone, everything that had once beat away the loneliness and nightmares of being back at the gypsy camp, were spilled over onto unworthy ears. Erik could plainly see that it made Margot miserable to do it but she continued anyway.

The tales that had cushioned their evening talks about their horrific pasts were now out for all to hear and Erik could not let such a crime go unpunished. It was _his _property she was spreading around and he would have her silence herself before she blurted every secret of the Phantom's.

But the certain pleasure he'd derived from seeing her face flush red with anger at his pranks began to wane as Christine progressed and the conflict between them settled into regret and aftermath. Though she had raw talent, Christine was no the musical counterpart he'd hoped for, not yet at least, and he missed the pleasant company of his pearl-skinned friend.

Now he simply awaited her apology and solemn promise never to do such things again, though Margot was particularly stubborn. She had ignored him for months, despite her now budding relationship with Christine. _Solnyshka. _He snorted to himself, tossing his cape and clothes to one side in a frustrated tangle. He'd known of Margot's Russian heritage and the place the Russian language took in her heart. To have used a piece of it to describe Christine must mean that Margot was ready to apologise and yet she made no move to do so.

Erik was an impatient man and he wanted Margot's ridiculous argument to cease and for her to admit herself as wrong. He couldn't understand what she was waiting for but as he carefully lay the white mask to the side of his still shapeless bed, Erik decided. _Three days. _He thought, darkly. _Three days, on opening night, and then I will make her apologise._

* * *

"I will have nothing but the best!" shrieked the new soprano as she strutted along the edge of the stage, taking in her new home.

"Of course, Mademoiselle." Monsieur LeFevre said, patiently. "Nothing but the best."

"I want three maids and a florist at my side at all times!" La Carlotta screeched as she dusted off her pink elbow length gloves.

"Three maids and- a florist mademoiselle?" LeFevre echoed, confused.

La Carlotta smiled, falsely. "A woman as beautiful as me, deserves beautiful things around her. Now, three maids, a florist and two carriers for my little babies…" she finished in a croon toward her fluffy little puppies in the audience, their current carriers looking tortured as the dogs bit at them fiercely.

Margot could barely keep in her giggles and astonishment at the sight of La Carlotta, the beautiful and _loud _soprano who had arrived a few weeks ago. She was only now discussing the points of her employment, leaving LeFevre to agree to her every whim, considering _The Magic Flute _was to open that very night.

A ridiculous creature, La Carlotta was indeed skilled but incredibly pretentious and vain. She demanded mirrors by her side at every opportunity and as many people to tell her how wonderful she was as she deemed necessary. Christine, who stood as a temporary assistant for the seamstresses now the Madame Giry had finished their rehearsals for the day, was wide eyed, her doe brown orbs barely peeking out over the materials she carried.

The soprano was a far bit wider than they'd anticipated and so most of the outfits had been recreated but due to La Carlotta's impatience with dress fittings, the gown she wore now, the last to be fixed, remained too tight.

"She's so…pink!" Christine gasped.

"I know," Margot said, stunned herself. "She's like a cloud of pink candies."

"-and I need a perfumer. And a hairdresser and no less than two people for my shoes!"

"Your shoes, mademoiselle?"

"Well I have two feet do I not? Therefore! Two people!"

La Carlotta continued until Madame Tenau called Christine and Margot forward to help her finish the hem of the dress which was a few inches too long for the stout soprano. "And who is this, attacking my gown?" the lady in pink screamed.

Margot blinked up at her, confused. "My name is Margot, Mademoiselle."

"Ugh!" La Carlotta said, pinching at the younger girl's cheeks. "You French girls are too pale! In _Italia_, the women have deep, luscious skin!"

Margot held her temper in check as she replied sweetly. "My mother was Russian Mademoiselle. She was pale too."

La Carlotta tutted, shrilly. "You poor thing! So pale, so white! Goodness, how you must live with your reflection!"

"I manage just fine," Margot muttered to Christine who giggled as Madame Tenau and Margot stitched up the dress. La Carlotta was working her last nerve like the bow works the violin: tensely.

"Be gone you horrible spectres!" La Carlotta bellowed, casting a hand over her eyes. "I cannot bear to look at you!"

_Alright, that's enough, glupya baba, _Margot snapped. She made her eyes go wide and she flinched backward. "No Mademoiselle, do not say such things! The Ghost, Mademoiselle, he will take offense!"

Nudging Christine, the little girl caught on and nodded, frantically. "He will be so angry!"

La Carlotta's eyebrows arched almost comically. "Ghost? What ghost?"

Monsieur LeFevre quickly had the girls escorted away as he tried to fix the situation. "Well Mademoiselle, it seems that our fine establishment is somewhat haunted-"

La Carlotta shrieked with laughter and her entourage followed suit. "Haunted? Oh you silly man," she huffed as the seamstresses finally finished their work. "What superstitions you Frenchmen have!"

But as La Carlotta stepped forward, one of the sack of weights hanging from the ceiling snapped and landed with an echoing _thump! _On the stage behind Carlotta and some of the maids and ballerinas who had been practising screamed with terror, one of them pointing to the ceiling in shock. "A mask! A mask! It is him! The Phantom!" she squealed, terrified.

La Carlotta snorted. "You superstitious Frenchmen with you scary stories, _ugh!_" she stormed off leaving Christine and Margot giggling behind the stage as the ballerinas were eventually coerced back into practise and Monsieur LeFevre began to draw up the agreements of La Carlotta's new contract.

* * *

Margot declined Christine's pleading to join her in the rafters during the opening night of _The Magic Flute. _She felt tired and saddened by the day's mention of Erik as the Opera Ghost and found her solace on the roof of the Populaire, among the gargoyles and stony benches.

It was a fine night and Margot watched as nobles and rich men, families and couples, all glittering in their best clothes, arrived at the Populaire's entryway, ready to embed themselves in the world the staff had spent a month creating for them.

Her heart ached for her family who might've joined such an audience once upon a time and for her friend who she could've shared the excitement of a new opera with. Erik's absence seemed especially sharp tonight, when he would have occasionally invited her up to Box 5 to watch the performance or simply sat in his cavernous home by the lake, listening to the echoes of the orchestra and singers from below the theatre itself. Sitting up on the edge of the roof, her head rested against a particularly gruesome looking gargoyle, Margot studied the groups and carriages, unaware of the presence behind her.

Erik had closely followed Margot on the third day of his decision, particularly enjoying his welcome of the new soprano to his Opera House. La Carlotta would do until Christine was old enough, so long as the rather young soprano kept her tongue in check.

No matter, he told himself as he silently navigated the rooftop toward Margot's seated form. La Carlotta would learn to obey him soon. Let her enjoy the high of her first French Opera and then he would remind her how easily he could take it away.

As for Margot, he had given up on awaiting her apology and now sort to go after it. But first…

Margot only sensed him in the last moments of his attack and before she knew it, she was leaning out over the incredibly tall fall of the Populaire rooftop, her hands clutching Erik's until the knuckles turned white.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, panicked. She could feel the cold wind along her back as she leaned precariously backward over the streets of Paris.

The uncovered side of his face remained impassive as he drew her slightly back toward the rooftop. "I'm teaching you a lesson Margot Ferrand."

"Put me back, Erik, this isn't funny, _putmedown!_"

"No. Everything under this roof is mine and I deserve its respect. Taking our time and spreading it amongst the ballet rats was disrespectful." Erik yelled.

"Erik! Stop it, _please!"_

"No." Margot struggled to wriggle back toward the rooftop but Erik held her steady. "Am I correct Margot?"

"Yes!"

"Now, do you remember what I told you about falling?"

Margot was breathing heavily. "Y-Yes!"

"What did I say?"

"That I wouldn't."

"Because?"

"Because you were there. And I wouldn't fall." Margot slowly felt her breaths grow calmer with the words. Erik was right; he had not let her fall before, he would not now.

"Now tell me why you told the ballet rats our stories?" Erik's face showed pain and his eyes sparkled with anger.

Margot sniffled and as she relaxed, he pulled her further back toward the roof. "I thought you had moved on to Christine."

"I explained to you why I wanted to teach her." Erik said, sternly. "I did not have to but I did."

Her feet slowly reached the rooftop again and Margot hung her head, both in shame and relief. "I know. But I didn't believe you. You sounded so perfect together that I didn't think you would want to be my friend anymore when you had her."

"And now do you understand?" he asked, equally firm.

Margot met his gaze, tearfully. "Yes Erik."

"I have earned your trust but you haven't back mine. What you did was foolish and childish and you should be ashamed of yourself." Erik snapped, finally getting out his frustrations. Margot nodded, feeling thoroughly chastised.

"I am." She peeked up at him, timidly. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"May I- I would very much like to have you back as my friend." She stumbled over the words.

Erik hid a small smirk. "You admit you were wrong then?"

"I'm sorry." Margot murmured. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Can I give you a hug now?"

Erik stiffened and then sighed. "Very well." He said, reluctantly. Margot slowly slipped her arms around Erik's chest and buried her head into his cape and despite his nerves which were screaming not let her too close to his person, Erik found the gesture rather comforting as well.

When she drew away, Margot gently smacked him in the arm, crossly. "_Never _do that again."

"Never make me do it again, _cherie_."

* * *

Translations:

_Cimetiere- French meaning 'cemetery'_

_Da, solnyshka- Russian meaning 'yes little sunshine'_

_Glupya baba- Russian meaning 'stupid or ridiculous woman'_

* * *

_A/N: Erik's a little...intense right?_

_I should probably make a note that I am so not a native speaker of Russian and I'm barely competent with French. If anyone has issues with my Google translating, well, I'd love to hear from you!_

_Any of you, really._

_Please review!_


	6. Chapter Six

_A/N: Alright guys, I'd like four reviews before I post the next chapter. You can do it! FOUR REVIEWS PLEASE!_

* * *

_CHAPTER SIX_

…_It may sound drastic but in the end, Erik dangling me over the roof of the Populaire was enough to make me remember that he had never let me down before and that he deserved my trust as his friend. Gradually, I earned back my place as his friend and I was better for it. Years passed, Christine, and I kept a balance between my friendship with you and Erik._

_Erik continued to teach you and I continued to visit him underground, even when my Uncle grew suspicious of how quiet I was and tried to catch me sneaking out. Goodness, if he only knew I wasn't sneaking off with a boy but with the Phantom of the Opera? He's probably turning in his grave as I write this. Over time, Erik told me more about his past, which I shan't recall here. My dear solnyshka, unfortunately that it was the only thing I keep from you and it is as much a favour to him as it is to you. There are some things one should not have to know._

_Five years later, things began to change for me and for Erik, though not in the same way. Do you remember the night you turned thirteen? I was so proud of you that night. You looked like a real lady and I saved up money for weeks to buy enough fabric to make you that dress. I was right of course, about the cream; you were a real angel that night, solnyshka, and I felt as though I could burst…_

* * *

Fall, 1866  
_Les Dormitoires du Ballet  
Paris, France_

* * *

"Christine, hold still," Margot snapped as she delicately pinned the dark curls away from the birthday girl's face.

"But Margot, we're not going anywhere!" Christine complained, laughingly.

Margot smiled, secretively. "We are girls _solnyshka," _she said, haughtily. "We can get dressed up just for us."

"Yes come on Christine, it'll be fun!" The light voice of little Meg Giry added to the conversation. She'd donned a very simple pale green dress and was currently sprucing her golden blonde curls into place.

"Oh fine," Christine sighed, smiling. "Fuss away!"

Margot smiled back at her surrogate sister figure with triumph and shared a covert glance with Meg who, having spent the better part of her evening keeping Christine occupied until Margot could leave her work on the nymph costumes for next month's production.

"I'd better be off Chrissie," Meg said, apologetically. "Mama is probably getting impatient."

"Good night Meg," Margot cut the girl off before she could further give herself away. The blonde disappeared and Margot thanked the Lord that Meg was a ballerina, not an actress because she could not lie to save her life.

Christine did not notice however; instead she focused on the worn silk of her night robe, tied tightly around her form. "Margot, why bother? Really?" she asked after a few moments of Margot pinning her hair up. "No one will care about the way my hair looks tonight."

Margot hid a smile. "Is there someone in particular you wish _would _care?"

"Margot!" Christine squeaked. "Of course not! I-I just mean that no one is going to see me tonight, why go to the effort?"

"Think of it as practise for when you become a star _solnyshka,"_ Margot teased, though she knew from her chats with Erik that Christine was quickly becoming the soprano she was always meant to be.

"And what of your hair, Margot?" Christine changed the subject quickly, looking flushed by the praise. "What will you do with it?"

"My hair?" Margot's brow furrowed. "Why would I do anything with it? It's mousy and limp, there's nothing special about it."

Christine rolled her eyes in a move she had picked up from Margot and studied her friend. At sixteen, Margot was beginning to blossom into a beautiful young woman, despite her somewhat plain hair. Honestly, without her lovely smile and flashing grey blue eyes, Margot would have appeared somewhat pretty but rather plain.

Her hair was straight as a pin and a horrible ash brown colour that the girl hated with a vengeance. And yet when she smiled, the room lit up and when she spoke, people craned forward to listen. Margot had a way about her, Christine mused. A way which had not gone unnoticed by the stagehands her uncle minded over.

Though they had never developed a sense of true familial love, Franck and Margot had come to a quite agreement, forged over nearly ten years of living and breaking bread together. And though he was hardly the protective Papa Margot had once had, her uncle had always kept a casual eye out for her concerning his stagehands, until, of course, the day came when she became too pretty to hide.

Margot had dealt with the more aggressive stagehands the only way she knew how; a quick but violent kick in the crotch and a scream of help to attract attention. The only occasion where her tactics hadn't worked was with a brutal six foot tall heathen named George Mondine, who had let his hands climbed under her skirts while he pinned her down on the wooden flooring behind the stage.

Erik had been most pleased to take care of the issue for her and it was with equal pleasure that Margot told police she did not know where George had disappeared to that night; truthfully, all she remembered was a flash of white in the darkness and suddenly George had disappeared into the darkness of the alcoves.

Needless to say, Erik's skill with his _Punjab Lasso _was coming along nicely.

Presently, a few of the men around the theatre had tried to coerce her into nights on the town or asked her uncle for permission to call on them, all of whom had been turned away. Her Uncle was reluctant to let his work and private lives mix so thoroughly and Margot had little interest in any of the men who called on her.

Margot had developed unhealthy expectations with the men who showed interest in her. They had to be trustworthy and strong, logical and incredibly intelligent- basically, she measured most men up against the Phantom of the Opera and found them lacking horribly.

Christine on the other hand, was just now entering into young adulthood and was shaping up to be quite the beauty. Margot considered this as she braided Christine's hair back loosely, making the style romantic and sweet enough for the girl's age.

"There," she declared after a few minutes. "Look how gorgeous you look!"

Christine did indeed appear quite the charming picture in her worn vanity's mirror and as she ahhed over the intensely worked details of curls, braids and pinned flowers, Margot snuck into the wardrobe where she'd hidden her creation earlier.

"And now a present for the birthday girl!" she announced, settling the old clothing box on Christine's bed. Christine gaped and alternated her wide doe eyes between the box and Margot who laughed. "Don't look so surprised, did you honestly think I wouldn't get you anything?"

Nudging her to open it, Margot put Christine's hands on the long white ribbon holding the box shut and the thirteen year old tugged it away, preserving the satiny length for later. She wiggled off the top of the box and nearly squealed at seeing the fine cream and blue gown folded up inside. "Oh Margot it's beautiful," she breathed, pulling it up against her.

The foot length cream lace gown was one of Margot's greatest creations; the neck showed off the detail of her collar bones and most of her arms and was tied together by a long blue ribbon around the waist. Christine raced toward her changing screen and threw it over her head, ignoring Margot's laughing pleas to keep her hair from getting tangled.

When she came out, Margot knew the colouring and style of the dress, though somewhat old-fashioned, was perfect for the brunette soprano. It made the most of her flushed skin and dark hair and eyes and as she stuffed her feet into her off-white slippers, Christine was easily the most beautiful girl in the Opera House.

Christine threw her arms around Margot tightly. "Oh thank you, thank you, _thank you!"_

Margot smiled, proudly. Christine had become so lovely over such a short period of time; it seemed not so long ago that Margot had detested the sight of her and yet here she was, bursting with love and pride over the beautiful girl before her.

"You're perfect." She declared, neatening her own dark green-grey dress before taking Christine's hand and leading her from her bedroom.

"Margot! Where are we going?" Christine whispered, feeling overdressed in her new gown.

"Well every birthday girl," Margot teased as they rounded the corner to the ballerina's common room. "should have a party, shouldn't she?"

"Oh my goodness," Christine gaped as the ballerinas exploded from their corners of the room, all shouting _surprise! _Margot stepped back and watched as they enveloped Christine into their folds, congratulating her on her birthday and giving her small favours and gifts.

It was truly what she had hoped out of the evening and as she stepped back into the hallway and quietly snuck through hidden door to her left, Margot just got to watch Christine coo over her new ribbons and laces and a particularly expensive pair of new ballet shoes before she was obscured from view.

She quietly slipped down the hidden passageway, keeping close to the wall where she knew it was safe until she reached her exit, a small trapdoor that led directly onto the stairs leading to the attic above the ballerinas' apartments.

And there she saw him.

Tall and confident, so swathed in darkness that the light seeping through the floorboards where the party was underway only reflected off his shining white mask on the right side of his face. "Erik what are you doing here?" she asked, curiously. "I thought you were squeezing last month's payment out of LeFevre?"

The Phantom sent her a small smirk. "He was more agreeable than I'd expected." He simply replied, looking down at the party for his student. "So this is the gift I've been stealing is it?"

Margot scowled as she carefully took a seat on the floorboards across from the man in the mask. "It's not stealing per se."

"You asked me to sneak out the material without Madame Tenau noticing _cherie,_" Erik countered, raising his eyebrow. "Take it from a man whose profession is to be invisible and cause trouble. _That_ is stealing."

"Say what you will," Margot said, trying to keep her breathing even as she took in his imposing form and beautiful face. It was not without its struggles but she managed. "Look how happy she is."

Erik's face softened upon spotting Christine playing a party game with her friends, giggling sweetly. "Truly an angel tonight."

Under his breath, the Phantom began to hum a new song Margot had yet to hear on his organ and she smiled as she listened. "It's lovely Erik," she complimented, admiring the way the streaked light cast shadows across his chiselled jawline and piercing green eyes.

"Oh?" he echoed, amused. "You approve then do you?"

Margot blushed profusely, unable to stop her reaction to the memory of the last time Erik had played for her. Erik, being Erik of course, was not content to write simply one song, no, he had set out to compose an entire opera, meaning that many of his songs carried different emotions.

The last she'd listened to was called _Désir_ and it had conjured feelings and sensations in her that crept under her skin and made her feel restless for things she'd never experienced. When he'd finished, Margot had been so embarrassed by her reaction that she'd told him never to play it again, that she did not approve of such powerful music _at all._

The Phantom had been so impressed and amused by her reaction that he hadn't even been angry at her criticisms of his work.

"It's lovely." She repeated, trying desperately not to recall the fact that when she'd listened to _Désir, _she'd been thinking of Erik and the day she'd caught him unawares (tricky enough to do to a Phantom) while he changed shirts. The smooth planes of his torso and ropey muscles in his arms were permanently engraved into her mind.

"It's music made for darkness," he commented, eying Christine as she danced away with her friends. "Music for the night."

"I'm sure it will be wonderful _Monsieur Fantome._" Margot said, teasingly. "If you published it, it would be the brightest star across the Continent."

"I'm already in the process of producing the brightest star, Margot," Erik rebutted, his gaze never leaving his student. "She's progressing wonderfully."

"She sang a hymn with me yesterday at the cemetery- Erik, she's incredible." Margot's tone conveyed her admiration.

"Speaking of the cemetery," Erik began, smoothly. "Any reason you took one of the horses and raced off so quickly _cherie?_"

Margot's face fell as she studied the laughing ballerinas below through the floorboards. "No."

"Margot, am I going to have to find the truth elsewhere?" Erik asked, sternly.

She sighed and leaned her head against her knees. "Uncle has said it's time for me to think about taking a suitor."

"A suitor?" Erik frowned. "Whatever for?"

Margot shrugged, not meeting his gaze for she was sure her heart would fill her eyes. "He says a girl of my age should start thinking of marriage. That no one wants an old bride, especially one without any prospects or dowry."

"Preposterous," Erik said, sounding uncomfortable. "You'll not be married for a long time yet Margot, you'll see."

"He's already thinking about letting one of the stagehands call on me," Margot said, flatly. "He's 'decided' on the matter. Uncle says my parents would have done the same for me."

Erik said nothing, instead watching the festivities below.

Margot wiped her eyes tiredly. "It follows doesn't it? The only time he attempts to be responsible for me and it's to make me miserable."

"You'll not be married." Erik simply repeated and Margot seemed fit to reply until a voice from below them called out for Margot.

The older girl frowned. "I thought she'd be too busy to notice me missing."

Erik snickered. "You must appreciate the irony in _me _telling you to go socialise."

Margot rolled her eyes and began to vacate the attic. Just as she made it to the door of the common room, Erik's voice echoed about her ears. "Wait a moment and it will be as though you never left." He murmured, amused.

Seconds later, the candles in the room went dark and the ballerinas screeched in fear as Erik let out a loud chuckle. Margot entered the room quickly and found Christine who seemed paler than normal, even as the older ballerinas began to relight the candles.

"Calm down now," she ordered, exasperatedly thinking of how funny Erik must've found their fear.

"But the Ghost-" one of the dancers stuttered.

"-knows a party when he sees one. He's simply playing tricks on us all. Now come and sit down and I'll tell you one of my new stories, hmm?" Margot calmed the group quickly.

Despite being far past the appropriate age of story-telling, none of the ballerinas, young or old, could resist the promise of one of Margot's tales and they settled down quickly, still nervous from the Ghost's interference.

"Once, in the far away kingdom of China, there lived a war lord and his lovely bride Ti…" Margot began, throwing herself into the details of the kingdom and the story of Ti, the queen who longed for the love of her husband's bravest warrior. Basic, Margot thought as she explained the escape of Ti and the warrior, but heart wrenchingly real. Unrequited love is what tragedies are made of.

* * *

Erik brushed off the shavings from his latest creation, a beautifully carved chest inspired by Margot's latest story, thinking over Margot's seemingly inescapable fate.

"Marriage?" he muttered to himself. "What an absurd notion. Margot can't leave the Populaire, she's as much a part of it as it is of her."

Of all the ridiculous things Franck Ferrand had ever done, this was one of stupidest.

He'd listened in the flies above the stage as the hands worked on pulleys and props and manoeuvres, all the while chatting about their boss's newest change of heart.

"Don't make sense, I reckon," one of the older men fussed. "Ferrand's been warning us off for years, what's changed?"

"I heard she's got herself a lover he doesn't approve of," another gossiped.

"Who is this?" the newest recruit, a boy of just eleven asked, curiously.

The older man chuckled. "The boss's niece. You've probably seen her around: seamstress, skinny, brown hair, skin like she's never seen the sun?"

"Not to mention that _body-_"

"Do you want to get us all fired?" someone said nervously. "The boss'll have your head for talking about her like that."

"Well it's true." The stagehand said flippantly. "She's a pretty little thing and the boss has said he wants to find her a man."

The older man snorted. "Hearsay. It's all rubbish."

"I picked up one of her bolts of cloths when she dropped it the other day," the boy admitted, shyly. "She was real pretty when she said thank you."

The rest of the men whistled, mockingly. "Well look at little Claudie, hitching up with the boss's girl." The boy flushed brightly and went back to sorting out the ropes.

"Honest to God though," the vile stagehand from before, added after a pause. "I wouldn't mind playing around with such a pretty little kitten."

"I heard she scratches Buquet, better be careful." someone called out and they laughed.

"All the better I say," Buquet replied, smoothly. Erik's eyes narrowed in on the man, considering his chances of making a noose around his neck before anyone noticed. Joseph Buquet, as he now recognised him, was a particularly nasty piece of scum who thought _no_ meant _yes_ and _please stop_ was a sign to continue. Not bad looking though much older than Margot, Erik considered his relationship with Franck Ferrand and found it disturbingly friendly.

_If he comes within ten feet of Margot, _Erik thought dangerously as he retreated into his passageways. _I'll string him up and leave him where the crows can't even pick at his bones._

"She's a nice girl Buquet, leave her be." the older man from before cautioned absently.

"If that's what Ferrand asks of me, it's what I'll do." Buquet swore, not mentioning which Ferrand he would be taking his cues from. Among the jostling and laughter, Erik's unusually noisy movements with the backdrop hanging above the stage went unnoticed.

Until, of course, the immense painting of a field of flowers nearly crushed them all.

* * *

"Lord in heaven, give me strength," Madame Tenau swore under her breath to Margot as they both entered the Prima Donna's compartments. They were revoltingly pink; the wallpaper, vanity, bedspread, chairs, cushions, carpets. Nothing was spare and everything seemed injected with fluffiness and decadence.

"Finally, you lazy women are here!" La Carlotta snarled as they entered. Margot took a deep breath, trying not to point out that they'd only been late because they were waiting out one of La Carlotta's infamous tantrums.

Margot and Madame Tenau curtsied as Carlotta had already made a point of ordering and Margot began to make last minute arrangements to the hem of her dress while Madame Tenau conquered some of the loose sequinning on the bodice.

"…everything is so _boring!_" Carlotta complained, throwing her arms around as her entourage nodded, sympathetically. "I need something to entertain me or else I shall surely go _mad!_" she cried out, dramatically.

Margot sighed ever so slightly as Carlotta bullied her entourage for suggestions. "Shopping?"

"Dining in town?"

"We could order a new portrait?"

"Or perhaps find Piangi?" this last suggestion sent a chill up Margot's spine. Piangi, Carlotta's counterpart and lover, was quite possibly the slimiest, least suave man alive and yet he believed he was God's gift to _all _women.

Carlotta scoffed at all the suggestions, making the stitching difficult due to her inability to keep still. "What ridiculous suggestions!" she screeched. "I hate them all! Something else! _Something else!_"

"There is a girl who tells stories to the ballerinas!" one servant suddenly blurted out. Margot froze.

La Carlotta eyed her suspiciously. "Oh? A story teller worthy to those untalented rats but not for me? Bring her to me! Now!"

The servant pointed shamelessly to Margot who tried to ignore it, despite Madame Tenau's frustrated stare. "T-That's her, Madame."

"You! Girl! Your name!" Carlotta ordered imperiously. Despite being introduced many, _many _times over her five years at the Opera Populaire, La Carlotta had never once remembered Margot's name.

Margot stood, feeling slightly anxious about the eyes on her. "Margot Ferrand, Mademoiselle."

"You are the one who tells stories to the ballerinas?" Carlotta's shrewd gaze nearly made her fidget but Margot reminded herself that she had stood before the Phantom of the Opera and not moved a muscle under his stare.

"_Oui, _Mademoiselle." She replied, crisply.

La Carlotta looked her over, critically. "You are too pale and far too skinny. But I suppose you are passable. Tell me a story _Margot,_" her Italian accent ran over the letters tauntingly. "Right now."

Margot cared little for pleasing La Carlotta but Madame Tenau was finally getting work done as the diva stood still, waiting. So she told the story she'd recited at Christine's party, about the Chinese queen Ti and her lover, who raced across mountains and planes, battling foreign tribes and Imperial guards as they sought out safety in the West. She spared no detail but concentrated her story around the lush quality of the queen's silks and the brave strength of her handsome warrior, knowing precisely what would have La Carlotta most fascinated.

After Madame Tenau had finished, Margot tried to leave with her but La Carlotta ordered her to stay and finish with the threat of getting the manager into it so she stayed and continued until Ti reached the gates of the Western palace in time to watch her captured and gravely injured warrior love Shu fade away with words of love on his lips.

La Carlotta's eyes and the eyes of most of her entourage were teary by the end and she demanded to know what happened next. "I want more! I need to know! Shu cannot have died, she must have been tricked!" Carlotta snapped.

Feeling awkward, Margot glanced at the door. "Mademoiselle, I am very sorry but I must leave now. I finished the story-"

"No!" La Carlotta screeched "No, that simply won't do!"

"I am being paid to work as a seamstress Mademoiselle," Margot explained, tersely. "Not a storyteller."

"We shall see about that!" Carlotta said, huffily as Margot finally left the pink apartments with a sigh of relief.

It was a relief short lived however, as to Erik's amusement, Monsieur LeFevre arrived days later at the Ferrand apartments to declare that La Carlotta had ordered Margot to join her entourage.

Her refusal was not an option.

* * *

Translations:

_Monsieur Fantome- French meaning 'Mr. Phantom'_

_Desir- French meaning 'desire'._

* * *

_A/N: Still with me? One of my favourite things to do is to make secondary characters into bigger roles in my stories. I just like the idea of rounding out the half-finished personalities as they get caught up with my originals._

**_Remember: Four more reviews until the next chapter, so just drop us a line in the box below!_**


	7. Chapter Seven

_A/N: Alright, I would like four more reviews for the next chapter please. Just four, measley reviews. I adore getting them so thanks to everyone who's done one so far!  
I think this is my favourite chapter so far. What do you think?_

* * *

_CHAPTER SEVEN_

…_Now, you already know how miserable I was in Carlotta's entourage. Erik thought it absolutely hysterical but he did not have to deal with La Carlotta's tantrums should one of her favourite characters die in battle. She was as insatiable with my stories as she was with everyone else and it grew tiresome after a short time. I was forced into an uncomfortable pink and red gown and made to accompany La Carlotta everywhere, including her bed chambers when she could not find rest at night. Do you remember how I complained, Christine? I'd been learning Russian out of Erik's books for nearly a decade at that point and how invigorating it was to cuss her out in my mother's native tongue!_

_My stories were nearly all romances: As you may have guessed, I was already half in love with Erik at just seventeen. La Carlotta loved it best when there was a happy ending but she was deluded by the tales. She thought love was simple and effortless as everything else had been to her and so when the New Year's Masquerade came round, she was determined to find a new lover in the sea of masks._

_You see, you were very young at this time, Christine, so I spared you the sordid details of how La Carlotta found one of her servants and Piangi in bed together though you hardly need such a disgusting visual anyway. You will remember however, how I came home from the New Year's Ball of 1867 deliriously happy and how I became only a part time entertainer to the Prima Donna after that…_

* * *

Winter, 1866  
_Les Dormitoires du Ballet  
Paris, France_

* * *

"'We must go!'" Margot mimed the diva's high pitched voice to Meg and Christine as she paced their bedroom. "'It is not optional!' How am I to find a costume with the money I have? How am I to find something that will not lead to Carlotta _embarrassing _me all night?"

"Can you not see how wonderful this could be Margot?" Christine demanded, wide eyed. "You get to go to a _real _Masquerade! How incredible! All the ladies and gentlemen in their finery!"

"I've heard that if a man kisses you at midnight at a Masquerade, he'll be yours forever," Meg added in a fanciful whisper.

"You two are not seeing the issue here." Margot said, angrily. "I have no money! I cannot buy all I need to make a dress in mere days!"

Meg giggled. "You'll be fine Margot. When it comes time for the Masquerade, La Carlotta will not even want to go, trust me."

Margot desperately wanted to reveal the true reason behind the diva's insistence but the scene of Piangi and Emilie, the servant girl, was still fresh in her mind and she could not bring herself to taint the girls with it. "She won't, I am sure of it. She's set on going." Margot collapsed on the bed, moaning. "What on earth am I to do?"

"You could pray?" Meg laughed and Margot swatted her half-heartedly. "Or Mama might have something?"

"Madame Giry goes to the Masquerade in the same dress every year Meg," Christine argued. "She won't have anything Margot's size."

"This is hopeless." Margot bemoaned. "I'll have to show up in that horrible pink dress and say I'm dressed as part of her entourage."

Christine tried to stop her laughter and act sympathetic. "Well Madame Tenau might lend you something," she suggested. "You've gotten the diva to cease flailing during fittings, I'm sure she'd be willing to help you there."

Margot bolted upright and hugged Christine tightly. "_Solnyshka, _you little genius!" she cried out, standing and brushing out the creases in her comfortable roomy work gown. It had been too long since she'd been allowed time off from the diva's demanding ways but she was currently working with her coaches for the first opera of 1867 and needed no distractions.

Margot knew her sizes and measurements perfectly so temporarily fixing one of the old costumes shouldn't be a problem and Madame Tenau might know where to start looking. Margot kissed both girls on their foreheads and both Meg and Christine watched as Margot left the room in a rush, feeling rather impressed with themselves.

* * *

After explaining the situation to a reluctant Madame Tenau, she was allowed the key to the costume wardrobe and she quickly began searching through the racks for something for the Masquerade. Margot knew she could've easily asked Erik for his spare key but had she been caught, explaining how the Phantom's extra set of keys had fallen into her possession would've been a tricky story indeed.

She seemed to recall Carlotta saying something about everyone wearing pink but since she looked positively ghastly in any shade of rose, Margot turned toward the greens and blues she knew would turn her skin to porcelain and her mousy dark hair to ebony.

There was a general theme amongst the Masquerades at the Populaire, that guests should come dressed as a character or in some different style, though many simply donned a fancy dress and elaborate mask and called it enough. She knew LeFevre rarely dressed as a character, merely choosing to look his most dignified in front of his patrons. _Though the amount of liquor he consumes hardly adds to that image. _Margot consiered, snickering.

The enormity of her task and the oncoming deadline hit her as she studied the gowns before her. "And I've to make a mask as well," Margot complained under her breath as she flicked through an awful yellow outfit.

"A mask, she says." Came an amused voice from above and Margot still glanced upwards, even after so many years of being tricked. "Why would you want to cover such a face?"

Margot turned to Erik, who leaned languidly against the fabric work bench, deceptively calm. "I'm sorry Erik." She said, apologetically. She knew how much the annual Masquerade upset Erik; rich, influential people donning a mask as a joke for a night, whereas he was cursed to wear his mask always as a barrier to the cruel world.

He waved her apology away as he eyed her selection critically. "They are all awful, _cherie._" He declared, brutally honest.

Margot sighed, looking down at the gowns in her size. "They are, aren't they? For me at least. I'm sure Meg or Christine would fit perfectly in them." Christine with her deep, sweet eyes or Meg with her long gold curls…

Margot had long since accepted her looks; her dark ashy hair was nothing particularly special, her eyes were a pretty but monotonous grey and her skin was perhaps unique but often made her seem sickly. She knew she would never be the gorgeous star of the show but occasionally, being friends with the two beauties of the Populaire took a toll on her self-esteem. It was usually Erik who knocked sense back into her.

"I would have helped make you a new one from scratch _cherie,_" Erik said, regretfully. "But it seems as though Carlotta has been taking too many cues from your stories and is desperate to find a new lover on a whim."

"Ugh!" Margot rolled her eyes and flicked through the next few dresses quickly. "She's insisting that she will find a new, mysterious man at the Ball. It's ridiculous of course but she's stubborn."

Erik tsked as she eyed a soft grey creation. "Not that one. If Carlotta wants to take you with her, she will take you at your best."

"I have a best?" Margot joked, weakly as she considered the blue petal fairy costume before her. It was periwinkle blue but perhaps…She turned to ask Erik's opinion and froze to find him pressed closely to her, his face hovering above her so close she could still smell the scent of candlewax curling off his cloak.

His eyes were bewitching as he spoke, slowly and clearly in his low, seductive tone. "You have a beauty that has not yet been shared with the world _cherie. _Let me show you."

Margot could only nod, her senses stunned by his proximity and the intoxicating scent of his skin.

The next dress Erik pulled from the costume wardrobe, a navy blue full length gown-costume, she almost blushed at.

For an opera it was ordinary and somewhat plain. To be worn by a mere seamstress, it was extravagant. It was scandalously revealing of her décolletage and arms and beautifully fitted around her torso, ending in an unusually slim skirt. It was a marvellously structured gown, her expert eye could see that obviously, but she remembered the particular production it had been created for; a siren lover trying to seduce a sailor. Margot had never seduced anything in her life but one look from Erik and she took it wordlessly, trusting in her boy with the mask not to lead her astray.

* * *

Margot dissuaded La Carlotta from seeing her dress beforehand, claiming that it was unready. Carlotta made jokes about it being made of burlap and tried to pressure her into showing her but Margot refused politely and changed the subject to the Chinese style of Carlotta's gown, taken from the description Margot had given of the warlord's queen Ti's gown.

In Margot opinion, it made Carlotta look shorter than she was but she appeared confident in her gown and it took the focus off of her.

Erik had supplied his friend with the various materials she needed to carry off her costume, as well as some basic instruction into how to create her mask. He helped her add where needed and detract from where she'd used too much. They had occasionally worked on particular costumes Erik had wanted perfect for specific operas but never something for herself. Margot found herself blushing with the occasional praise that fell from his lips. Her inspiration came from a story her mother had told her when she was very young. Albina Ferrand had grown up in a small Russian speaking village on the coast, her father an ocean trader. The briny depths of the sea was something she knew intimately, as well as all the mysterious stories concerned with it.

Albina had told Margot of a woman named Pelageya who had lost her husband, a sailor, on one of his voyages. She was so distraught that she sat by the sea for days and days, weeks and weeks, refusing to eat or sleep until he returned for her.

Her husband had drowned and was now one of the servants of the Seven Lords of the Seas. He begged his lord to be able to retrieve his wife and bring her to live with him. He was granted his request but only if his wife stayed by the sea for seven years.

Though he did not believe she could, his wife did exactly that, kept alive by the villagers who forced her to feed once a day. While she waited however, through storm or sun, her skirts grew permanently drenched with saltwater and the waste of the sea- jewels, pearls and sea foam- began to collect on her body.

By the time the seven years were over and her husband came to collect her, she was much a part of the sea as he was and walked without issue into the oceans, never to be seen again.

Though she simply claimed the inspiration was random, Margot had often thought about this tale and the love it spoke of. In some small part of herself, Margot wondered what it would be like to immerse herself in Erik's world, waiting for him, until the day came when she could no longer be considered separate from the darkness surrounding him.

* * *

New Year's Eve arrived and Christine and Meg Giry were the first to see Margot's costume in its entirety. The pair had helped her into the corset she rarely tightened so securely and after she'd slipped her gown on, she awaited their response, hesitantly.

"Good Lord Margot," breathed Meg as she took in the fine netting, rippled and ruched silk made to look like waves, the occasional strand of pearls that appeared and disappeared amongst the embroidered jewels and beautiful detail of Margot's skirts and bodice. Her skin was the colour of ivory, revealed by the daring but somehow elegant neckline and the thin, loose white straps made to look like sea foam.

Christine could barely register the creature before her as her friend, the dark sapphire silk, faux-jewel encrusted mask obscuring the top half of her face from view and turning her eyes into chips of grey diamond. Upon Margot's neck, a choker composed of multiple strands of pearls, collected in the front by a modest silver clasp completed the outfit.

She looked as though the Queen of all Seven Seas had grown legs for the evening and had deigned to walk amongst the mere mortals.

"Please say something," Margot murmured, feeling anxious.

"You look _wonderful._" Christine blurted out. "Absolutely beautiful."

"_Incroyable _Margot, this is your best work ever!" Meg agreed, the two still in shock over their friend's skill.

Margot smiled suddenly and she looked ten times prettier. "I suppose it will be cool in the ballroom but with the fire, I'm burning up," she commented, trying to lighten the tension.

Meg leapt over to her dresser and removed the silver decorated fan she'd received from her Mama for her 13th birthday. Delicately passing it to Margot, the girls sighed, dreamily. "You're going to be the most beautiful girl there Margot." Christine assured her, smiling.

Margot lifted her mask and kissed them both on the forehead before she made her way toward the diva's rooms where she was to meet with the rest of the entourage. She used Meg's fan liberally on the way there; even with her head piled on top of her head, pinned into place with clips and even more strands of pearls, Margot's nerves had her body fidgeting and heating up as everyone's eyes stuck to her while she walked past.

When she arrived outside the diva's rooms, the rest of the entourage seemed amazed by her transformation and Margot began to feel a little more comfortable in her skin. _Trust Erik, _she told herself as La Carlotta burst through the door, theatrically. _He knows how to make things beautiful._

Most of the pearls, despite what Margot later told Meg and Christine, were real and courtesy of the Phantom's contacts. "_You will be dancing among the upper crust of society, cherie,_" He'd stated. "_They can smell a fake a mile away." _Nonetheless, Margot felt weighed down by the expense and caught herself looking at the ground. She took a breath to remind herself of how her mother would have worn this dress before she straightened her back proudly.

La Carlotta seemed impressed by Margot's costume but after a few short words on behalf of her entourage, they left for the Bal du Masque, assured that Carlotta's costume beat them all.

* * *

"Piangi will be there and none of you are to speak with him," she instructed them as they were introduced by Monsieur LeFevre, who Margot felt especially odd taking praise from.

"Of course Mademoiselle," the others agreed, sensibly before being sent off to allow Carlotta time to show off on her own to the patrons.

Suddenly alone in a ballroom of rich strangers, Margot had no idea what to do with herself, although eyes and whispers followed her wherever she went:

…_beautiful…unknown…pearls…expensive…alone?_

_...husband?…unattached…entourage…the diva…_

…_worker…impossible!…rich…lovely…stunning…_

Unused to the whispers, Margot steadied herself by one of the carved marble pillars just as the first gentleman asked her to dance.

Margot had been taught the basic steps by Meg and Christine but she'd never performed them properly in such a fine setting before and she was terrified of making a mistake in public. She was about to politely decline the offer when Erik's voice trickled into her ear: _Dance cherie, let them wonder who you could possibly be…_

Powerless to resist his commands, Margot nodded absently and allowed the gentleman, a young entrepreneur by the name of Jean Missen, to whirl her around the floor and in spite of her fear, she began to feel comfortable in her dress, which was like armour against the world and her mask, which kept the men who asked her to dance, guessing as to who she could be, as Erik had predicted.

She chatted with nobles and joked with ladies and found herself blushing at the amount of gentlemen who lined up to dance with her.

Margot felt, after her sixth dance, that she could have been anyone that night.

La Carlotta called her over at eleven o'clock, just an hour until the New Year. "Piangi brought his little _puttana _with him," she sniffed. "I want to know who she is."

Margot sighed and repeated the information she'd heard the diva's entourage repeat many times over the last three days. "Emilie Mason, Carlotta. She is a maid in the Populaire."

"A _servant? A maid? _He would never be so stupid as to choose _her _over someone like me!" La Carlotta ranted, as she had constantly been doing ever since Piangi had been caught.

"I've no idea what he was thinking Mademoiselle." Margot agreed, flatly. Spending the night by La Carlotta's side was hardly what she had in mind for the evening but Margot bore it for nearly fifteen minutes until a smooth, _familiar _voice broke into her Italian ranting, responding back fluently.

Margot froze, sure now that the whole night was a dream because it could simply _not _be Erik standing next to La Carlotta, his white mask now stretched over the entire top of his face strangely. Whatever he said caused Carlotta to pause and eye him flirtatiously.

Erik merely nodded politely and turned to Margot, his eyes barely visible but glittering in the hollows of his mask. "Mademoiselle Ferrand."

"M-Monsieur-" Margot began to respond- though she was unsure how to end her sentence- when Carlotta jumped in, eager to snatch up the handsome stranger.

"Signor, we have yet to meet," she purred, eyebrows raised coquettishly. "I would have remembered. Your name, signor?"

"You really cannot tell?" Erik said in a sarcastic tone. "Tis I, Mademoiselle Giudicelli, the dreaded Opera Ghost of the Populaire."

La Carlotta shrieked with laughter. "How very clever signor! Your costume is wonderful indeed!"

Margot could barely restrain her amazement as Erik politely switched sides with her, moving closer to Margot in the meantime. "Yes, how inventive," Margot added, incredulous.

He winked at her through his mask. "May I ask the lovely lady for a dance, Mademoiselle Giudicelli? Since she is guest at your leisure?"

La Carlotta seemed unsure about allowing her newest fixation to leave with Margot but Erik's voice brewed little room for argument. "I suppose I must, monsieur." She said, petulantly. "Hurry back, won't you?"

"I would hardly dream of waiting." Erik told her, falsely as he swept Margot onto the floor and kept perfect time amidst the swirling gowns and costumed dancers.

"What are you doing here?" Margot began to fret. "What if someone finds out?"

"Finds out what?" Erik murmured back, his arms tightened around her. He was dressed thoroughly in black, his hair slicked back and save for his mask, presented in his usual style. "That the Phantom is walking among them, don't be ridiculous. Who would guess such a thing? And who better to play the Opera Ghost than _the_ Opera Ghost?"

"What if-?" Margot whispered, panicked at Erik so close to danger.

"Shh, _cherie,_" he whispered, lifting her so perfectly, as though she weighed nothing, his hands tight on her hips for a perfect moment. "I am here to frighten our dear Monsieur LeFevre into paying me for the previous month. He's become slack and you know my methods: before I do something horrible, I always first give warning."

Margot felt as though she might be sick but she could not help but admire Erik's daring as they circled the ballroom. "You're going to warn him in person? Erik that's madness!"

"It is madness, which is why I am instead going to let him discover my note in his pocket, in the middle of a crowded party." Erik corrected softly as the dance ended. "He will never doubt the ghost again after tonight."

Margot could finally look directly up into his beautiful face. She felt nearly breathless at how close he was. Just an inch and she could kiss him. "Let me come with you then," she begged.

Erik looked unsure. "He will know you. He might suspect you as being the Ghost's note carrier as he does Madame Giry."

"Then I will leave before you do it but please don't go alone." She whispered, bravely.

"I do many things alone _cherie,_" Erik murmured, brushing a lock of hair behind her mask. "And I am perfectly safe during all of them."

"Please Erik."

The masked man sighed and looped her arm through his as they made their way to the ring of people conversing with the Populaire manager. "Monsieur LeFevre," Margot greeted when there was a lull in conversation.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Ferrand, how wonderful to see you!" LeFevre replied, ever so slightly cross eyed. Margot felt relief at knowing he was slightly drunk. It would make this easier.

"I'd like to thank you again for inviting me, monsieur," she said, demurely.

"What a wonderful event Monsieur," Erik suddenly cut in loudly and he swayed as though drunk himself. He clutched LeFevre's shoulder and patted him hard on the back and shoulder, discreetly slipping his note into the manager's left inside jacket pocket.

"Thankyou good sir!" LeFevre said, cheerfully, receiving Erik's hard pat on the back with no small surprise. Margot glanced around the circle and guessed that hugs and bodily contact was not unusual of this calibre of drunkenness.

Margot gently pulled on Erik, eager to leave, though Erik seemed to be having far too much fun messing with the group, beginning arguments and starting conflicts. By the time they pulled away, it was nearly the countdown and Margot pulled Erik behind a pillar, her heart pounding with relief.

"_Mon Dieu, _Erik, never do such a thing again!" she breathed.

"Why ever not? I found it positively invigorating." Erik replied, smirking.

"Because I was terrified the entire time!"

Erik waved her off as the countdown began.

30. 29. 28. 27. "You would have been fine _cherie._"

Margot ignored the initial flinch he gave and instead buried herself into his chest, her arms wrapped around his back as far as she could manage. "I wasn't scared for me." 26. 25. 24. 23.

"I wasn't going to _hurt _LeFevre, I'd have to break in a whole new manager." 22. 21, 20. 19.

18. 17. 16. 15. "No," Margot whispered, her fear beginning to evaporate. "I was worried for you." 14. 13. 12. 11.

"For me? You silly girl." Erik said almost…fondly perhaps?

10. 9. "I don't know what I would do without you." Margot confessed, her mask and her dress and the countdown making her bold.

8. 7. Erik did not reply but slowly he tightened his grip on Margot and for the first time, returned her embrace.

6. 5. 4. _Now is the time, Margot. You have to tell him. Just say it!_

Margot looked upwards into the masked man's face, obscured by shadow. 3. 2. "Erik…I-"

"1! HAPPY NEW YEAR!" the crowd screamed.

* * *

Winter, 1867  
_Paris_

* * *

Margot paused for the first second of the New Year before she reached up and pressed her lips to his right cheek, where his scars lay hidden beneath the edge of his mask.

She looked back to find his eyes impossible to read and his mouth set in a line of confusion and she tried her best to smile. "Happy New Year Erik."

And after the longest first minute of the year, the Phantom's lips quirked upwards in a small smile. "Happy New Year _cherie._"

* * *

Translations:

_Incroyable- French meaning 'incredible'_

_Putanna- Italian meaning 'slut or whore'_

_A/N: So? What'd you think? Review please! **Four more for the next chapter!**_


	8. Chapter Eight

_A/N: Wow! Thanks for the response guys! I've noticed the reviews are getting longer and more detailed and the one thing you all seem to enjoy is Erik calling Margot cherie. **If I get six reviews for this chapter, I'll post an outtake which will have much cherie-calling, I promise. **Thanks so much for taking the time to read my story guys, it means alot!_

_BTW: Things are going to start to become clearer soon; more aligned with the movie-verse. Hope you enjoy it but if you don't, leave a review all the same and (kindly) tell me where I might need some work? Thanks!_

* * *

_CHAPTER EIGHT_

…_You know why I came home so happy that night now Christine. I kissed the Phantom for the first time in the first minutes of 1867. I lived with the words I'd swallowed back that night for three years Christine, because I truly believed there was no way someone like Erik could love someone like me. I had little to offer him, mentally or physically. I was inferior and I could not compete, especially not when I began to see how he looked at you._

_It did not start when you were a child. I'm sure that's something you've wondered about and Erik has nothing to do with that kind of filth. His intentions were pure to begin with Christine; he wanted someone to take his music and let it really soar and he knew you could do it. But as he explained to me, things became tangled somewhere along the way and suddenly, passion and longing became love and the only way to keep his plans together was to possess you._

_It is not an excuse but can you remember what he was like? You remember 1870 solnyshka. You remember what happened but do you remember how it felt? How it felt to be young and beautiful and loved by a mystery? How enticing his presence was? How exciting and confusing? Erik is a complicated man and despite his flawless logic, he tends to put plans awry simply with his presence._

_You may say he was a madman. You may call him a monster. I have no right to judge how you look at him, after what he did to you but know this, solnyshka, Erik is a man. He was a man who was in love with you for many years and believe me or not, he was just days away from confessing it to you…_

* * *

Winter, 1870  
_Catacombes  
Paris, France_

* * *

"She's ready," Erik murmured one night while Margot sat in her leather winged chair, designing the new headdresses for Hannibal. After the Masquerade, at which Margot had, in Carlotta's eyes, snatched the handsome stranger, Margot had fallen out of favour with the diva and was now only invited to join the entourage twice a week.

Margot found nothing to complain about over the new arrangements and threw herself back into her designing work.

"Who?" Margot hummed, absently as she pencilled in hair ribbons for the lead soprano's head gear. "Does this make it look top heavy?" she asked, flipping the drawing around.

Erik took a brief glance before turning back to his organ. "Far too tall. Carlotta's flailing will simply knock it off her head."

Margot looked again and sighed. "You're right of course."

"The glitter across her forehead is clever though," Erik commented.

Margot eyed him carefully before turning back to her drawings. "You've never complimented me before. I usually know you're impressed by the general lack of critique." She said, off-handedly.

"Perhaps I'm practising." Erik said, mockingly.

Margot watch him from her sketchpad. "Who is ready, Erik?"

"Christine." The Phantom replied with relish. "She's ready to be revealed."

The brunette raised her eyebrows. "Oh? In what role? The supporter in Hannibal?"

"Supporter?" Erik scoffed at her suggestion, running his hands through his hair as he toyed with the last notes of his opera. "Of course not. I intend to have Christine play the lead in Hannibal."

Margot nearly fell out of her seat. "The lead? I- You intend to take the lead from La Carlotta?"

"No I intend to have her give it up herself." Erik said, his voice full of calculations. "It's best if you stayed away from the stage this coming Monday, _cherie_."

"And why is that?" Margot asked, feeling dread pool in her stomach. She found she could not always agree with what Erik deemed necessary to his plans but while she attempted to cool some of his more fatal ideas, Margot had little say over the Phantom's movements within his opera house.

Erik did not reply to her question. "LeFevre is retiring, you know."

Margot gasped. "_Mon Dieu_, I thought they were rumours!" _Oh no, Uncle will have no work, we'll have to leave. Christine and Meg, what will they do?_

Erik pounded on his organ with glee. "He sent me a note for the first time in a decade, asking for forgiveness for his retirement but that his health was failing and he intended to leave France far, far behind."

Putting down the pencils Erik had allowed her to borrow, Margot rubbed her eyes, surprised over Erik's happiness at the idea. "Well what a fine idea that is!" she spat. "How will you get your money now?"

Erik rolled his eyes at her dramatics. "I did not say the Populaire was closing, _cherie_."

Margot paused in her racing thoughts over what this might mean for the Opera House and everyone inside it. "But...what then? New managers?"

"Indeed," Erik said, thoughtfully. "Messieurs Andre and Firmin, if I'm not mistaken. It is a shame I will have to break yet another manager in but the new management is the perfect occasion to have Christine take centre stage."

Margot watched as Erik's hands danced across his organ, not actually playing the music which would be too loud to carry a conversation over. "Erik?"

"_Oui_ Margot?"

She halted, trying to phrase her question delicately. "Christine is very beautiful." she began. She herself had noticed how Christine had begun to blossom, though in many ways she was more girl than woman.

"Perfect for the lead soprano." Erik smiled. His tone set her nerves alight with tension.

"Yes," she agreed, feeling worry gnaw at her stomach. "But I wonder- you told me once that you longed for Christine's voice. I suppose what I want to know is whether you now long for something…else…of hers…" Her body? Her heart? Her love?

The Phantom paused in his composition and turned to face his friend who was watching him anxiously. "She's ready," Erik repeated. "To be revealed. And perhaps to have me reveal myself."

Margot's eyes slipped shut in disappointment, her fears confirmed. "Erik-"

"She loves her Angel, Margot." Erik said, firmly. "She will learn to love me and our music also."

The brunette sighed, sadly. "Erik, Christine thinks her Angel is the spirit of her dead father."

"Then that love will strengthen the one I hope to grow with her." Erik replied, facing away from Margot, dismissively if not defensively.

"It is not the same kind of love!" Margot snapped, hopelessly. _It is not the love I have for you_. Erik's fingers froze on the keys. He stood abruptly and paced the candlelit platform that lifted his organ.

"You do not think she will accept me." Erik's voice said, flatly. "You do not think she will accept my face as it is."

Margot bit her lip, frustrated. "Erik, I worry for you. A blind man can see what you want out of Christine and I worry that she will not be able to give it to you, not for your face but because you are not the Angel she thinks you are."

"Perhaps not!" The Phantom roared, knocking one of his many-armed candelabras into the lake. Margot flinched at the aggression. "But she will learn. She loves her Angel and the music we make, she will learn to love her Phantom and the music we _will_ make."

"Erik-"

"_That is all I will hear of it Margot!_" Erik hissed, standing away from her. His back was rife with tension as he glared at his organ, the white hot anger radiating toward Margot nearly palpable.

Sighing, Margot carefully put his pencils back on the side desk he'd created for her and stood, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. "Will you take me back now?" she asked, shakily. "I need to finish my drawings for Madame Tenau tomorrow."

Erik merely nodded, donning his cape as he traversed the passageways, Margot trailing behind. She could probably navigate them herself at this point but she enjoyed the time she spent with Erik and this was another way of making sure it did not end so quickly.

As he dispatched her to the hidden doorway at the end of her hallway, Margot paused and took a deep breath. "Erik, I know you said you didn't want to hear me speak of it but for your sake," Margot summoned her courage and brushed her fingers across the right, masked side of his face. _If only for his sake, though it might break my heart-_ "I hope she does accept you." she whispered, truthfully before she disappeared back into her apartments.

* * *

As Carlotta warbled along on stage, Margot stood to the side with the cleaning women, rolling her eyes at the patchiness of the soprano. She had refused, much to Madame Tenau's surprise, to work on stage today, claiming that she felt dizzy. Margot wove one of her less inspired excuses that to finished the detailing of the ballerina's hair pieces, she needed to work amongst the audience chairs, to see how they saw it.

In reality, Margot was heeding Erik's warning about being on stage and was keeping an eye on the pair of gentlemen who had arrived that morning, dressed in suits and looking proudly about what Margot assumed was their new opera house.

_The managers,_ she thought, watching as a few of the chorus girls cast eyes at the middle aged men. She hoped they would take to Erik's advice quicker than LeFevre had but as they pranced about, chatting with another young man that Margot recognised from a few previous performances as the Viscount de Changy, she doubted they were the type to take Erik's advice without a few threats and disasters.

Margot eyed Monsieur LeFevre as he came to the front of the stage, upsetting the maestro in the orchestra bay dreadfully. "What's all this then?" one of the laundress' asked from behind Margot.

"He is announcing his retirement, I should think," she whispered back and the laundress nearly wilted.

"_Mon Dieu," _she whimpered. "Who will keep it together now?"

"Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, ladies and gentlemen, please, if I can have your attention, thank you." Monsieur LeFevre began, a tone of relief in his voice. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true, and it is my pleasure to introduce to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles Andre."

"Those two, I'd assume." Margot replied to the laundress, her tone disbelieving.

"Junk merchants?" the laundress snorted. "What kind of a joke is that?"

Margot felt sure that all hope was lost for them. Not only would two 'scrap metal' entrepreneurs know anything about the arts, but such arrogant, self-made men would hardly bow to the words of the Opera Ghost!

As they introduced the new patron, the young man entered the stage and Margot spotted Christine and Meg whispering, their gazes locked on the Viscount. Margot rolled her eyes. _Oh God, don't let them get any thoughts in their heads about seducing the new patron, _please, _that is the last thing I need right now_.

As La Carlotta and Piangi were introduced, Carlotta preening as always, the Viscount announced the gala for the night and exited, much to Margot's relief. Meg and Christine looked upset but soon the managers were touring with Madame Giry to see the ballerinas and Margot watch with pride as the girls performed their steps perfectly for the managers.

_At least their futures are secure, _she thought, gratefully. _The managers like them. _Although if what Erik said was true, by the end of today, Christine would be well on her way to becoming the Prima Donna of the Opera Populaire itself.

As the rehearsal finished up, ruined by Piangi's weight and inability to climb the prop elephant, La Carlotta's temper showed itself. "I hope he is as excited by dancing girls as your new managers because _I," _she screeched. _"will not be singing!"_

"Oh Lord," Margot sighed, finishing the last of the jewelled hair pieces for the ballerinas. "Here we go."

The managers looked stunned as Carlotta stormed away though after a few short words from M. LeFevre, Andre and Firmin raced after Carlotta, spewing praise and compliments.

"Monsieur Reyer, isn't there a rather marvellous aria for Elisa in Act Three of _Hannibal_?" one of the managers quickly improvised.

As La Carlotta screamed over her unfinished costume and 'dreadful hat', falling into theatrical tears while the managers begged for a private rendition of the aria, Margot tuned out the rest of the rehearsal, wondering how Erik would feel over his plans going to waste-

_Eeeeeerk!_

Margot turned at the screams in time to see the back drop for Act Four come crashing down on the stage, knocking La Carlotta off her feet.

"The Phantom! The phantom of the Opera, he's here!" someone squealed.

The managers began to call abuse at the stagehand in the flies and Margot felt her stomach roll to see Joseph Buquet calling back his innocence. He caught Margot's eyes in the crowd and smirked, slyly. "There's no one there!" Buquet mocked. "Or if there is, then he must be a ghost!"

Margot tore her eyes away and watched with growing fascination as La Carlotta screamed and ranted over the ghost, finally storming out for the hundredth time and Madame Giry appeared with a familiar white letter in her hands.

"He welcomes you to his opera house-" she began.

"_His _opera house?" the managers echoed, incredulously. Margot hid a smile. _Erik is watching somewhere and he is laughing._

"And commands that you continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due." Madame Giry adds, her tone slightly amused.

As the managers began to fret over the odd letter, the 20,000 franc salary and that their first performance would be ruined by the complete _lack _of a soprano, Margot paused on her way up the stage steps, her eyes drawn to Christine who was comforting Meg.

"But obviously we will now have to cancel as it appears we have now lost our _star!_" the manager cried.

Before she knew what she was doing, Margot was walking toward the managers. "Christine Daae could sing it, sir."

Eyes locked on her, Margot floundered as Monsieur Andre dismissed her suggestion. Madame Giry, thankfully cut in. "She's been taking lessons from a great teacher." The ballet mistress added and in what felt like the blink of her eyes, Margot watched Christine take the stage and let the aria Carlotta had attempted, soar throughout the theatre.

Before her eyes, Erik's plans were complete and Christine was announced as the lead soprano for _Hannibal._

* * *

The performance was arguably the best of the entire season so far.

The new managers were glowing with pride but the toast of the entire evening was the new, beautiful soprano Christine Daae. Margot congratulated her in her compartments an hour after the production, having had to put away all the costumes.

Margot felt concern as she looked at Christine's paler than normal face. "Christine, are you alright _solnyshka?_"

Christine looked at her with her wide doe eyes. "I-I performed tonight for my papa, Margot and he has not given me a sign that I did well." She fiddled with the red rose Margot recognised as Erik's.

Margot pushed her irritation with Erik away as she brushed out Christine's curls. "Well let me say how perfect you were, _solnyshka,_" she said, fondly. "You were so incredible, he would be mad not to be proud of you."

The door suddenly opened and Margot turned to snap at the intruder, only to find their handsome new patron, his smile stretched wide at the sight of Christine. "Little Lotte let her mind wander. Little Lottie thought: Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes…" he began to recite, nonsensically.

In the back of her head, Margot remember a very young Christine reciting such lines and talking about a boy at the house by the sea. _Oh no, _she thought suddenly. _Her sweetheart has returned. Oh no, poor Erik._

"…or of riddles or frocks?" the Viscount continued.

"Those picnics in the attic," Christine added, beaming.

"Or of chocolates?"

"Father playing the violin."

"As we read to each other dark stories of the North."

"No - what I love best, Lottie said, is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head!" Christine sang softly.

"You sang like an Angel tonight." The Viscount said, hugging her gently. He suddenly appeared to notice Margot and, misunderstanding her role as a maid, cast his eyes at the door. Margot's eyebrows rose at his rudeness.

"Christine, I will be off now." She addressed her little friend who suddenly seemed to remember her.

"Oh, Margot, this is Raoul. We used to play together when we were small." Christine introduced.

Raoul stood and bowed politely to the young lady who merely nodded. "Raoul, Margot is one of my dearest friends here." Christine informed him, smiling. "Thankyou for tonight. It would not have been so beautiful without your gown." Christine added, smiling at the silvery dress she still wore, one of Margot's personal creations.

"It was a pleasure _solnyshka._" Margot added, fondly. She noticed of course, how Raoul's brow furrowed at the foreign language but ignored him until she had left the Prima Donna's apartments. "Oh Erik," she raised her eyes, wondering if he was listening or still too pleased with himself to hear her. "Be careful. They were in love as children and- and I think they still are."

* * *

_A/N: Soooo? The movie has begun, what do you think? Remember, six reviews and I'll post an outtake. Leave a suggestion for a specific scene you want to see in the reviews if you like!_


	9. Chapter Nine

A/N: So...I caved and counted the PMs I recieved as part of the six review-ransom I was demanding for this chapter. Look how you slay me you wonderful people. I got a lot of people saying they loved Erik calling Margot _cherie _though I should probably point out that Erik doesn't necessarily mean it as romantic right now.

So here's my request for chapter ten: **five reviews please and i'll dedicate the chapter to the best reviewer!**

**PS** After Margot leaves Christine's chambers, Erik comes to collect as per usual and the scene at the House by the Lake happens.  
That's what you missed if you're confused.

* * *

_CHAPTER NINE_

…_in what was one of the most honest moments of our relationship, Erik shared with me what occurred in his home that night, Christine and I think I can understand how terrifying it must have been to awaken and find your Angel had become a ghost instead. You are my little solnyshka, Christine, you don't fare well in the dark but you must understand that his mask and the darkness are all Erik knew, at that time. Removing his barrier stirred his sense of betrayal which as I've already mentioned is particularly sensitive._

_La Carlotta was of course furious but the managers smoothed things over quickly. She asked me into her apartments to tell her a story before she slept, to soothe her, and I discovered then that the casting, despite Erik's demands had been set. Carlotta as the countess and you, my dear Christine, as the silent pageboy for the next opera, Il Muto. (Frankly I hated Il Muto- it gave Piangi and Carlotta an excuse to mock and grope you and Meg and it was revolting.)_

_Madame Giry refused to allow any of us to see you so I decided I would uncover how the other half of your night fared. I knew Erik would not come fetch me on his own so instead I navigated my own way through the catacombs of the Populaire and found him before his organ, unplaying but instead calculating. I tried to calm him but the Viscount and your rejection of him was too much for me to fix. My news of your casting simply made things worse…_

* * *

Winter, 1870  
_Catacombes  
Paris, France_

* * *

"Erik, _please,_" Margot begged, resituating the fallen candelabras and papers from the ground where they'd fallen during one of his rages.

"He is trying to take her from me, Margot." Erik snapped, furiously. "_It must not happen!_"

"He is a handsome young man trying to woo her!" Margot frustrated. "It is not some sort of conspiracy, I doubt he knows you exist!"

"After my notes, he must know." Erik said in a low, dangerous tone.

"What notes?" Margot asked, suddenly fearful that in his anger, Erik might have become sloppy and have left a trail for the Viscount.

Erik straightened and paced across his home like an angry tiger paces its cage. "I have informed that, that _fop!_" he bellowed. "That he is never to see Christine again! I know his type, he will take my promising young star and make her his wife and she shall never sing again!"

"Erik, that's ridiculous!" Margot snapped, brow furrowed. "Christine would not leave-"

"You saw them together," Erik accused. "Tell me she would not leave if her _childhood sweetheart _would only ask!"

"I-I-I cannot." Margot sighed, defeated. "But Erik, this anger- it's not the way to go about this."

"It is the only way that works." He argued, studying the miniature stage he'd set up with determined eyes. "I have ordered Christine in the lead of Il Muto-"

"Christine?" Margot echoed, her ears filled with Carlotta's gloating about having the lead role in the next opera. "Are you sure?"

"Who else would I cast, you silly girl!" Erik shouted, glaring at her. Margot's spine straightened; though she would do nearly anything to comfort the man before, steal, lie and cheat for him, she would not take his tone and attitude lightly. It felt scathing against her heart.

"I did not come down here to be insulted, Monsieur." She snapped. "I came down here to attend to my friend."

Erik let out a breath, attempting to expel some of his anger. "That was uncalled for." It was as much of an apology as she would get.

"I wish I were not the one to tell you but La Carlotta has been cast as countess in _Il Muto._" Margot added quietly and she watched as the tension bundled into his shoulders again.

"Those _fools!_" he hissed. "I give them everything they need to make a perfect opera; I give them my time, my advice, my soprano and they are wasting on that talentless witch!"

"Erik, perhaps you must let the public put Christine into favour with the managers," Margot suggested, fruitlessly. "They love her, they will ask for her back but they need time."

"_Time? _I have no time if I am to stop that insipid Viscount from stealing Christine away from me." Erik murmured, glaring at his miniature stage. He glanced at Margot. "No, this must not come to pass. Christine is the pageboy I assume?"

Margot nodded mutely and picked up one of his folders containing scraps of his opera. "Did Christine accept you Erik?" she asked, quietly after a few moments. "You still haven't told me."

"She has time to accept me." The Phantom said, cryptically as he turned away from his childhood friend. "She will see, eventually, what I am doing for her."

"Erik, I am begging you," Margot said as she finished tidying the aftermath of his anger. "Do not invest all of yourself in this, please."

"I must," Erik said, sounding almost surprised at Margot's plea. He turned back around, his expression confused as though he could not fathom her suggestion. "My Angel has put her voice, her _soul_ in my hands and I will put mine into finding a way for us to be together."

_My Angel. Her voice. Her soul. To be together. _

Erik did not want her, he loved and begged for Christine.

Margot was hardly was no Angel. Margot had no voice and an unremarkable human soul.

All she had were scarred laundry woman's hands from where she had not developped calluses soon enough and a heart which felt as though Erik were taking a carving knife to it.

How could she hope to compare?

_That's enough Margot, _she told herself, as Erik continued to mutter and rage under his breath, oblivious to her agony. _Absolutely enough. You're stronger than this and you will collect yourself at once._

With that, Margot left the candlelit chamber, her heart broken as she climbed into one of the passageways leading to the chapel.

Taking a deep breath, she carefully slipped out of the loose stone in the floor of the chapel and put the cover stone back just in time to hear footsteps echo down the staircase.

Thinking quickly, she knelt before the candles, lit one and drew a spare length of beads from her pocket, extra from one of her pieces she was working on for Il Muto. They resembled pray beads so without any further ado, she bent her head to pray.

"Christine spoke of an angel of music…" a voice muttered to himself and Margot was startled to see the young patron, Raoul de Chagny arrive in the chapel.

"Monsieur?" she greeted, confused.

"Ah, Mademoiselle…Margaret?" he attempted.

"Margot sir."

"Yes, Christine's friend?" the Viscount clicked his fingers together quickly. "I apologise for disturbing you."

His words felt perfunctory so Margot merely nodded and began to rise. "I was finished anyway, your lordship." She could tell he was surprised at how she addressed him but then, he did not know that her father had had many lords and ladies as clients and she knew how to politely address all of them.

"Wait," he called as she began to climb the stairs.

_Chert voz'mi! _she thought annoyed as she turned, obediently. "_Oui monsieur?"_

"Do you know of the angel Christine speaks of?" he asked. "She mentioned him before she disappeared."

Ice seemed to fill her veins. Margot tried not to show her shock that Christine had mentioned Erik to Raoul but replied anyway. "No monsieur. She only claims her father sent an angel of music to protect her."

"Who has been playing with her all these years?" he demanded, angrily. "Who has been toying with her thoughts?"

Margot did not dare reply, though it was clear the Viscount expected one. After her pause extended, the Viscount waved his hand. "You may leave." He said dismissively.

Margot bristled at the dismissal but left, feeling as though she had just dodged death. Barely.

* * *

The opening night of Il Muto came quickly and when Margot awoke, she felt sure that it would be the disaster the Phantom had promised.

She dressed warmly and pinned her hair up quickly and away from her face, sure that should catastrophe strike, she would need all her wits about her. But it appeared her calamity was to arrive earlier than opening night. Margot left her room to attend to breakfast only to find her Uncle Franck seated at their small coffee table, waiting for her.

"Margot sit." He ordered, rubbing his eyes. The stagehands had become more unruly lately, having being blamed often by the manager's for the Ghost's tricks.

Margot quietly obeyed, nervous for her Uncle's purpose behind the chat. "Yes Uncle Franck?"

"How old are you now Margot?"

"Twenty, Uncle."

Franck leaned back in his chair. "Your father would've already had you married by now but I've no time to be selecting husbands out of fine society if I even could." He said, his tone unintentionally harsh. Margot felt her stomach drop. "You're a woman now Margot and that means you should be looking for a husband."

"But-"

"Quiet, girl." Franck snapped, gruffly. He rubbed the side of his head, irritably. "I've agreed to one of the men who has come calling on you before and should you find it _pleasing,_" he said, sarcastically. "I'll give my permission towards your marriage."

"Uncle, I don't want a husband!" Margot cried out, eyes wide. This was unlike anything she had imagined for her morning and she hated it. She had fallen in love with a Ghost and anyone else was unlikely to compare to how deeply she felt for Erik.

"I said, _quiet._" Franck argued. "It's the natural way of things, Margot, grown girls have husbands. Besides, what do you think you're going to do without someone to take care of you? Live here with me for the rest of time? I'll be damned if I'm stuck supporting us both when I'm eighty!"

"But Uncle," Margot pleaded. "I don't like any of the men who called on me. They scared me!"

"Tough." Uncle Franck was unrelenting. "Joseph Buquet has already pled his case and he's a good friend of mine. He'll at least allow you to stay at the Populaire and continue working, be thankful for that!"

"While he molests the other ballerinas in dark corners or tries to take advantage of the maids!" Margot screamed, standing up.

"That's enough!" Franck snapped back. "I've given him my permission and that's the end of it Margot. _No discussion necessary."_

With that, Franck picked up his hat and stormed out of their rooms, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The entire morning, Margot was consumed with her task of avoiding the vile stagehand her Uncle was hoping to marry her off to.

Joseph Buquet was one of the worst men in the theatre; he was rude, sloppy, petulant and hadn't the slightest shred of decency in him. And Margot was his _intended_? She nearly threw up after her Uncle left and moved about the Populaire in a daze, thinking of how horrible it would be to marry such a man.

But she could see no way out. It wasn't as though she liked anyone else enough to put forward to her Uncle and Erik was too far obsessed with Christine, not that she would've been able to confess herself anyway. After the third time Margot had pricked one of the chorusmen during a fitting, Madame Tenau pulled her aside and demanded to know her issue.

"Margot, this is unlike you and we have work to do." She said, not unkindly. "Tell me what is wrong."

The woman who had been her employer for nearly ten years looked at Margot with the same soft blue eyes and curly blonde hair she always had, the wrinkles and rough skin adding to the soft image she portrayed. Margot wanted to weep, though her pride would not allow her. "Uncle says that I must marry soon."

"As I would imagine any woman your age must." Madame Tenau agreed, confused.

"And he wants me to marry Buquet." Margot's voice was dead.

Tenau on the other hand, turned shrill. "Buquet? Has the man taken leave of his senses? Margot, you cannot-"

"But I must," she cried, fisting her hair in her fingers helplessly. "I have no one else to put forward to Uncle and he will not allow me to find someone else in time!"

Madame Tenau clutched Margot to her in a maternal hug the younger woman had not felt in a long time. "Shhh, little lamb, all will be fine." Tenau fretted. "You have a place here, child, your Uncle will come to reason."

But the falsehoods did nothing to ease her and when Madame Tenau insisted she leave the costume workshops for her lunch, Margot was feeling even more miserable than before.

As such, however, she was also unobservant.

"Hello there _jolie,_" Buquet's oily voice filled her ears and Margot froze, spinning to see the stagehand staring down at her from the platform above.

"Go away Buquet." She spat, viciously.

He made no move toward or away from her. "That's not a nice thing to say, _jolie, _not to your fiancé…" he tutted.

Margot visibly shivered. "We will _never _be married."

Buquet shrugged. "You uncle sure seems to think so. Is it not the husband's job to discipline his wife? Just think, _petite, _I have years of your rude behaviour to discipline you for…" he smirked, laughing. Margot's stomach turned just thinking of what Buquet would classify as _discipline._

"_Never, _you _monster!_" Margot screamed, blind with fear and rage.

"Such a mouth on you _jolie._" Buquet chuckled, taking a swig from his bottle. "I'll have fun with you I think."

Margot nearly threw up but managed to throw one last glare at Buquet who laughed as she stormed away, breaking into the run she could no longer contain within herself as she did.

She found silence in one of the old cleaning cupboards and pressed her forehead against the cool stone wall, pleading with herself not to give Buquet the satisfaction of seeing her weep.

"What happened?" She heard his voice before she saw him appear from one of his trapdoors and, disregarding his space, Margot tossed her arms around Erik tightly, wishing for some of the comfort Madame Tenau had given her. She did not care to remember his inadvertent cruelty from the past night, nor the way even now he stiffened slightly at her touch. Margot did not even care for the red rose tied in black ribbon that fell from his grip, obviously meant for Christine.

Margot simply did not care. She wanted Erik as she always had; as a shelter, as a place of refuge, as protection and safety and contentedness. She wanted him to erase the oily marks Joseph Buquet's eyes had left on her skin.

"Margot, what's going on?" Erik demanded, upset and confused over Margot's shaking limbs and frozen eyes.

"Uncle wants me to marry Joseph Buquet," she whispered, fear evident in her tone, despite her attempts to hide it. "He won't take no for an answer and Buquet- h-he…he said-!"

"Shhh," Erik hushed her, much like Madame Tenau, trying to make sense of whatever was going on inside Franck Ferrand's head.

"Erik, tell me it won't happen." Margot whispered, burying her head in his broad chest. _Give me comfort, _she begged silently. _Tell me it won't happen. Tell me that all will be well and I won't spend the remainder of my life beaten and abused by my own husband. _

But for the first time, Erik hesitated.

If his plans went ahead, Christine would sing his opera and then they would be married and escape before his crimes caught up with him. His schedule, should his plans succeed, was tighter than the noose he was currently imagining around Franck Ferrand's neck.

Could he promise that he could take care of Margot's problems? Ensure that her uncle would not simply jump to the next eager man should Burquet disappear? It would require time, time he was unsure he could spare from his plans with Christine. All had to move perfectly if his plans were to succeed. Did he have the time to craft a plan to protect Margot when his Angel was being wooed away from him with each passing second?

But the idea of one of the vile men touching an unwilling, screaming Margot was enough to make him want to slaughter them all. So he merely nodded and brushed away the hair from her face while her shaking began to calm.

* * *

Though she couldn't think of how Erik might manage to stop her impending marriage short of killing Buquet (which she was beginning to think she wouldn't actually mind so much), Margot felt confident that Erik would not let her down. It was what she could ask of him, as a friend though she dearly wished for more.

She avoided Buquet for the rest of the day, eventually settling back into her work mindset and finishing the last of the costumes for _Il Muto._

La Carlotta had demanded one of her stories to soothe her before she went on stage though she interrupted constantly with gloating over how much more magnificent she was than Christine.

Margot held her tongue but barely until it was time for the production and she retreated to the workbenches of the costume department to put away the chaotic mess left over from the fittings. She didn't mind missing the performance; frankly she thought it was just an excuse for Carlotta to bully Christine and for Piangi to grope Meg and well…every other girl on stage.

By the time she heard the laughter, she was on her way toward the prop department to deliver some of Madame Tenau's requirements. A pair of shrieking ballerinas went past and Margot stopped them on their way. "What's going on?" she asked, frowning. _Il Muto _was a comedy but it wasn't _that _funny.

"The Phantom made La Carlotta lose her voice on stage!" one ballerina giggled.

"She sounds like a toad!" the other cackled and they both tugged out of her grip. "We're to go on stage as an interlude before Christine Daae goes on in her place."

"_Mon Dieu,"_ Margot muttered as she made her way to the stage and saw the chaotic rush of people trying to repair their opera. "I missed the best opening night the Populaire's ever had!"

Carlotta stormed past and Margot let a small giggle loose as the diva squawked and croaked orders to her entourage who were confused and fearful of the soprano's rage. She watched the ballerinas attempt to handle the fluffy white sheep and twirl between the prop handlers and stagehands that were recreating the scene right before their eyes. Though she felt embarrassment for the Opera House, she could clearly understand why the audience was in hysterics. It was the funniest things she'd ever-

Something dropped out of the platforms above the stage, hung by a rope and twitching violently and before Margot could scream, it swung around and she saw the bloated face of Joseph Buquet, hung right before her eyes.

* * *

A/N: Sooo...what'd you think? Realistically, there was no way that Buquet, a lowly stagehand would have ever been eligible to marry a performer like Christine or Meg but Margot, as a seamstress, is a workwoman and therefore far more likely.

Hope it wasn't too cliche for you but I like how Erik's 'handling' of Buquet for Margot fed into the movie timeline.

Now remember: **Five reviews please for Chapter Ten** and I'm already at work on** an outtake, **although, did you want me to** post it here or **on** a seperate story page?**

* * *

Translations:

_Chert voz'mi- Russian meaning 'Damn it!'_

_Jolie- French meaning 'pretty'; occasionally used as a term of endearment_


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N:YAY! 21 reviews! I CAN POST AGAIN! ****Alright then, five more reviews til the next chapter. **

**Hope you enjoy this, the feedback is inspiring! This chapter is neck deep in the movie by the way and I've taken bits and pieces of dialogue, though much of it is paraphrased so forgive any mistakes. **_This chapter includes the masquerade and the cemetery scene._

**Also, I promised to dedicate a chapter to my best reviewer so...**

**_Deanna37_, this is for you! Thanks for all the kind words and feedback!**

* * *

_CHAPTER TEN_

…_you may say to this very day that killing Buquet was wrong and a sin of Erik's but forgive me, solnyshka, I cannot. Buquet followed Erik out of his own curiosity and it was part of the reason that got him killed but I must confess my overwhelming relief at his death. Erik freed me, Christine, from a loveless, painful marriage with a man I detested more than anyone else in the world._

_I know you saw the horror in it more than the benefit but for me, it was protection and certainty. Erik saved me, my little solnyshka. You might not see it that way, but I do._

_Now as you know, that was also the night you and your Viscount confessed your love. I know, only because Erik was there and he spoke of his heartbreak that night to me. As much as I love you Christine, part of me hates how you hurt that man._

_You know of Erik's absence in the Populaire for nearly eight months after that night. And while you and the Viscount discovered each other again during that time, I worked and tended to a man who had been broken by your rejection._

* * *

Winter, 1870  
_Catacombes  
Paris, France_

* * *

Erik watched as though from a distance, as Margot tidied his home and composed a small tray of bread and jam, a cup of tea on the side. He could hardly stomach to see her and remember her and his Angel laughing together as they prepared for parties. Specifically, Christine's sixteenth birthday, where she wore a reworked white dress, lingered at the edges of his mind, taunting him along with the visuals of the Viscount.

How he _hated _that man! He'd felt such hatred only once in his life, for the gypsies that had tortured him as a child before Antoinette had brought him to the Opera Populaire and it burned inside him once more for the man who had stolen his love, his angel of music away.

"Erik, are you hungry?" Margot asked quietly as she settled the tray down beside his organ. He had not moved from his seat in weeks, his mind far too consumed with the task ahead of him.

He had written several songs, several short performances over his time under the Populaire but he had been waiting until Christine joined him before he created his masterpiece, his _opera principal._

He had imagined spending his days immersed in darkness and music, only surfacing to experience the delicate, wonderful touch of his Angel. He had pictured her face, euphoric as she brought his music to life with her incredible voice.

Did she sing for the Viscount? he wondered. He would not know as he hadn't left his home by the lake since the opening of Il Muto and the murder of Buquet. It was hardly his first and sure not to be his last but it had apparently been the final straw for Christine who had run into the arms of her Viscount before the opera had even ended.

He could tell that while grateful for the murder- her Uncle had lost most of his ideas of marriage after the loss of his friend- Margot was at a loss as to how to deal with him. She'd taken to navigating to and from his home by herself which he was surprised at, considering she'd always claimed a total lack of a sense of direction. She came down nearly every evening to ask how he was, to fix him food and attempt to peel him away from the music he was now set on creating.

She even resorted to telling stories, something he hadn't had time to listen to for many years. It was actually one of her tales that had inspired the plot of his new opera, which was composed of pieces he had been writing all his life. He poured his heart and his rage and his pain into the pieces and watched with something like sadistic pleasure whenever Margot had to turn away, the power of his music too much for her.

Her story of the gypsy flower girl and how she toyed with the Italian Don Marco ended with Don Marco's decision to travel and experience a world not involved with the girl, was far different, however, to Erik's opera.

_Don Juan Triumphant _would be a story of seduction and with it, Erik would pour the power and creation he had held back from Christine so as not to scare her away. With it, Erik had decided, he would ensnare his Angel's senses so deeply that she had no choice but to follow him.

Love, he decided, could come later but as the Masquerade Ball drew closer, the Phantom vowed that he would seduce his Angel to follow him into hell.

"Erik eat something, please?" Margot murmured four days before the Masquerade. She knew he had something planned for it but she had not secured an invitation as part of Carlotta's entourage and would not be there to witness it.

Privately, Margot considered this somewhat of a blessing because if she had to watch Erik with Christine for another moment, she thought her heart might very well begin to bleed.

Erik refused to respond, still bent over his fabrics as he stitched and fitted his costume perfectly. Though Erik took more pleasure out of composing, Margot knew that he could fit anywhere in the opera house and work as the star of that department.

Such promise, she thought, and it was being wasted on a lost venture. Christine had come racing into her rooms not two months ago, her face light and happy as it had been since the Phantom's disappearance, and conveyed in whispered words the magical evening she'd shared with Raoul de Chagny. This was a rather common occurrence since the Viscount, while still awkward around Christine's surrogate older sister, had charmed Christine thoroughly but what came next was a surprise and cause for fear.

"_Margot, he proposed!_" the soprano had gushed. "_He loves me and he wants to make me his wife!_"

Margot had smiled weakly and claimed illness, not an untruth considering how sick to her stomach she felt. Erik was consumed by his love for Christine and he truly believed he had the chance to make her choose him but Margot knew what a lost cause his fight was. Christine was engaged; she was prepared to swear, before the eyes of God, that she would forsake all others for Raoul as his wife.

Unable to contain herself, Margot slammed the tray of food she'd prepared onto the floor, relishing the loud crashes and broken china. "This is madness Erik!" she exclaimed, helpless as to what she could do to make him see. "Christine is in love with the Viscount-"

"_Do not say his name!_" Erik growled but they were the first words she'd heard out of him in months so she continued.

"It is lost, Erik!" she begged. "It is time to move on-!"

"_I cannot!_" he roared, hoarsely. "She cannot be lost to me. I can reach her, you will see..."

Margot closed her eyes and took a deep breath, full aware of what she was about to do. "I will not."

"You doubt me?" Erik asked, icily.

"No Erik," she murmured, understanding that though it felt like a knife in her gut, she could not do this to herself anymore. Perhaps that made her selfish but she could no longer stand by and watch Erik succumb to his obsession. "I will not see because I cannot watch you continue down this path. If you keep going with these plans, I- I cannot watch you destroy yourself Erik. I couldn't bear it."

"You do not believe she will accept me. I know you care for her as a sister," Erik accused, his voice growing louder. Margot frowned, confused and exasperated. Did he not hear her when she spoke? Did the words simply drift around him, the untouchable, unreachable Phantom?

"No, I merely-" Margot began to explain but Erik was far too aware of his own betrayal to notice the pain in her expression.

"You don't want _this _for her," he gestured wildly to his right side, fury evident in his tensed voice. "You want her with that vile Viscount, don't you?"

"_No, Erik. _I want-" she attempted to explain but suddenly Erik's gloved hand was pressed tight against her throat and she could no longer breathe let alone speak.

"_Don't you?_" Erik bellowed from above her as he tightened his grip. Frozen, Margot could only shake her head, stunned that Erik would turn against her this way. The fear in her eyes, fear which had never been there previously, must've been enough to startle Erik from his anger and suddenly the hand at her throat disappeared.

Margot fell to her knees, winded and gasping. She glanced up and found Erik had retreated to his workbench, frozen over his _Red Death _costume. "Erik…" But for once she had no words.

"Leave Margot Ferrand." The Phantom demanded coldly. "I shall not ask again."

Margot escaped while she could.

* * *

Winter, 1871  
_The Prima Donna's Compartments  
Paris_

* * *

Margot heard of the Phantom's appearance at the Masquerade. A solemn hush had fallen on the opera house; the theatre and all its occupants lived in fear of the Ghost who had reappeared to declare his intentions. _Don Juan Triumphant _was the newest opera set to perform in just a few weeks and all who had seen him at the Masquerade dared not go against his wishes.

But Margot refused to listen to the stories the ballerinas and workers told; she ignored their chattering and gossip. She hated any talk of Erik and had Madame Tenau ban it from the workshop. Outside of her work, however, ignoring the gossip of the theatre was far more difficult. Even her Uncle wad full of hatred of the Phantom for killing Buquet all those months ago.

In the end, Margot merely grew used to imaging she was in Erik's home, isolated from the bustling opera house, whose confines she was beginning to resent.

Margot avoided Christine as much as she could which was hard when the girl was scared out of her mind and in need of her sister figure's comfort. But part of Margot's heart broke every time she was called in to calm the terrified ballerinas during rehearsal or when Christine broke down in tears and Raoul could not calm her.

This led to a certain amount of friction between herself and the Viscount, who resented Margot's ability to calm Christine so easily. He took, instead, to sleeping with a sword outside Christine's dormitories. Margot of course pointed out that the Viscount was a poor lookout considering he fell asleep most nights but Christine seemed charmed and comforted by the gesture.

The morning she was called to La Carlotta's chambers to soothe her with a romantic fairytale, Margot was half way through her story when Christine ran into her arms, crying and sobbing, Raoul following behind her, bleeding. It was then that Margot knew that Erik was past her help.

"It was horrible Margot!" Christine wept as Raoul left to speak with the managers. Margot clutched her girl to her, calmly letting her expel her tears on her blouse. "He was there and I thought he was my father!"

"Your father is dead, Christine." Margot reminded her gently. "It is time to accept this."

She could see now that by creating the Angel persona, Erik had not allowed Christine to come to terms with her father's death. In Christine's mind, he had always been with her, in the form of Erik's Angel of Music.

"I know," Christine sobbed. "And then he and Raoul, they fought with swords and he injured Raoul- I was so frightened, Margot."

"I know, _solnyshka, _calm down, I know." Margot rocked the girl, slowly, trying to calm her shaking body and couldn't help but be reminded of how Erik had calmed her when she'd been faced with the prospect of marrying Joseph Buquet, all those months ago.

"And now Raoul is talking of plans and hunting him down and-" Christine continued and Margot froze.

"Hunting who down? The Phantom?" she echoed, stunned. "He must be mad!"

Christine wiped her tears away with a handkerchief Meg provided her. "It's true, he's calling the police in to help!"

"They will get themselves killed!" Margot exclaimed, wondering how on earth Erik would react to the intruders in his opera house. "We must stop this, now before it is too late!"

"Margot-" Too late, Margot had left Christine in the arms of the young Meg Giry and raced off to the search party.

"…His reign will end!" Raoul declared, determination evident on his face.

"We shall corner him in the Populaire with as many guards as needed!" M. Andre said, firmly. "He will not be able to sneak away!"

"And armaments! All policemen are to be armed and ready to shoot on sight!" M. Firmin added.

Margot gasped as the managers moved on, leaving Raoul behind. "What are you thinking?" she hissed, furiously.

"I'm thinking that someone needs to do something!" the Viscount snapped.

"He will kill you all before any of these plans can come to fruition!" she nearly screeched. She could not believe the Viscount could be so thoroughly stupid. "This is _his _opera house, Viscount! He will see any trap a mile away!"

The Viscount paused. "You seem overly familiar with the Phantom, Mademoiselle Ferrand." He stated, coolly. "Do you have anything to share with us?"

"Only that this is madness!" she hissed. "He will know, he will stop you and it will _never _work!"

"Mademoiselle, he _must _be stopped." Raoul told her, sternly. "He killed the man you were intended to marry, I would've thought you'd be on our side."

"Joseph Buquet was a bully and a _rapist!_" she spat in retaliation. "I would thank the Phantom for stopping him!"

"You sympathize with him? With that _monster?_" Raoul said, incredulous.

"He is a man, not a monster!" Margot said unthinkingly.

Raoul froze, connecting the dots faster than Margot had given him credit for. "You've seen him."

"I-I have not." She backtracked, looking distrustfully at the Viscount.

"You have," Raoul clicked his fingers triumphantly. "You know him, you know where he is, don't you?"

"I've no idea!" she denied but Raoul gestured to a pair of policemen who each grabbed one of her arms.

"You know Mademoiselle," Raoul said, his face set. "And you will tell me!"

* * *

Few people noticed Margot's disappearance from the Opera house in the days leading up to the opening night of _Don Juan Triumphant._

Margot Ferrand's few associates were informed a variety of stories as to where she had left to.

Madame Tenau was informed that Margot had quit, the stress of putting on the Phantom's twisted opera too much for her to bear.

Her Uncle was told that she had left, hysterical with fear over having her would-be fiancé murdered and her friend nearly kidnapped.

Meg and Madame Giry were told that she had taken ill and had left to visit her old home in Versailles.

Christine was the hardest to lie to, the Viscount found, but the most necessary. If the woman he now held in the makeshift jail on the opposite side of the street from the Populaire was indeed an associate of the dreaded Phantom, then she may have been endangering Christine for years without her knowing.

To Christine, Raoul had Margot leave a letter detailing a similar story as the one told to the Girys, the underlying base of which was her fear of the Populaire and inability to watch Christine put herself in harm's way. The plan had nearly backfired when Christine declared she would not sing.

"Margot will come back if I do not!" she exclaimed, her tone final. "I love her Raoul, I need her with me."

Raoul, feeling wretched over lying to his fiancé, pressed her to his chest so he would not have to see her innocent, beautiful eyes. "Christine, she will not come back if the Phantom is still haunting the Populaire. Do this for her, for all of us. Help us find him and stop him from hurting anyone else."

Thoroughly depressed over Margot's disappearance, Christine had agreed, desperate for her friend back.

Raoul left that night, as he had been doing each night for the past week, to visit Margot Ferrand, furious with the petite ivory skinned woman for holding her tongue.

"Tell me where he is!" he demanded to know. Margot merely turned her gaze away from the Viscount, her face looking pale and gaunt. She hadn't eaten much more than bread in the past week and with the opening night of _Don Juan _upon them, Raoul was even more desperate to make her talk.

"He wants to hurt Christine!" the Viscount stated, surprised at her unwillingness. "I thought you loved her?"

"I love Christine as much as a sister could." Margot told him, sneering.

"Then help me stop the man that would keep her from the surface, keep her locked away, bound and in the darkness forever!" Raoul pleaded.

Margot laughed bitterly as she gestured to the tiny basement she was chained in. The police officers had not allowed her to take them off since she'd arrived and her wrists were rubbed raw. "And what do you call this, Viscount? I am below the surface, locked away and bound in darkness and the man at fault is _you!_ You do not deserve Christine-!"

Raoul had never hit a woman in his life and he didn't intend to ruin his record. Instead, he settled for slamming his hands down on the table between them. A small part of him felt satisfaction at her flinch. "I am trying to save her!"

"You are trying to keep her the same way he is, Viscount." Margot told him bitterly. "You simply want to do it with fine horses and pretty dresses."

"You're intolerable, woman!" Raoul sighed, angrily.

"You are not the first man to tell me that." Margot shot back, rolling her eyes. She felt dirty and tired and fearful for Erik.

"Oh?" Raoul said, breaking his composure. "Did _he _tell you that? It must have hurt, to hear him tell you such things and lust after another woman!"

He had not expected her to turn away but her reaction surprised him. And suddenly, things mad sense for the first time since he'd agreed to patron this horrible opera theatre. "That's it, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?"

Raoul leaned closer, astounded. "You care for him, don't you?"

"Ridiculous."

"Yet true." He stated, coldly. "You care for the Phantom, for that _monster-"_

"You do not know anything about him!" she screamed back.

"And you know him _better?_" Raoul mocked, angrily.

"I've known him for fourteen years, you fool!" Margot roared back. "And he has never once done anything as cruel as what you are doing to me now!"

"I could have you arrested you know," Raoul said after a pause over the shock of discovering what appeared to be the Phantom's only friend. "As an accomplice."

"Christine would never forgive you." Margot said with finality. "She won't forgive you if she discovers that you're keeping me here either."

"No," Raoul finally admitted. "She would not. But I will do what I have to, to secure her safety."

The Viscount turned and walked away from the improvised jail cell, leaving the two police officers to guard the door leading down to the basement and Margot in the dark once more.

* * *

Translations:

_Opera principal- French meaning 'main opera'_

* * *

**A/N:So I suppose I have some explaining to do right?**

**First of all, I'm not a Raoul fan. He's a bit too pompous for me.**

**Second of all, Erik little...tantrum, should we say, is at a point where he is starting to lose control on his madness. The real Erik, the one Margot loves, is based around Mme Giry's movie description of him as a genius; the Erik she loves is a man who is lonely and artistically incredible. **

**The one who nearly choked her is kind of nuts.**

**So, **_FIVE REVIEWS UNTIL THE NEXT CHAPTER IS POSTED_**and trust me it'll be a doozy. It's probably going to deviate from the movie a fraction but hell, its fanfiction, who cares?**


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: Alrighty. So, you might have to suspend your disbelief in parts of this chapter but I hope you like it. I'm super exicted by the amount of reviews and so if I get SIX REVIEWS for this chapter, I'll not only post Chapter 12 but also the one-shot I've been working on. Excited? I AM!**

**BTW, Princess of Love and Hate, have I mentioned how awesome your reviews are? Keep your MargotxErik flag up, it'll get better soon.**

* * *

_CHAPTER ELEVEN_

…_it is probably best to address here that I know your Viscount has told you what happened and what he did to protect you. While I do my best not to think of it, I know that you love him in spite of his flaws and now I must ask that you cast a similar light of understanding upon Erik and how it all unfolded that night._

_I did not see the opera Don Juan Triumphant but I heard later how scandalous it was, how it was essentially a seduction in song. It did not surprise me, as I'll explain, because what you saw was Erik at his worst. Can you imagine your Viscount or yourself in a similar situation? Tormented by love for someone who fell for another? Being rejected at every turn but desperate to gain even one of their affectionate glances?_

_By the time Don Juan Triumphant occurred, Erik was at his lowest point; his opera and subsequent behaviour was a direct reflection of his need for you, solnyshka. It has been a long time but recently, the dear Phantom has admitted his misgivings regarding that particular piece and I hope you may see that what you say that night, was not the true Erik that I knew._

_But enough of that. I suppose your real question is how I came to be in the catacombs that night and the answer is most unexpected…_

* * *

Winter, 1871  
_La Patisserie des Renault  
Paris, France_

* * *

"Let me out!" Margot called, hoarsely from her corner of the basement. The building was a bakery that the Viscount had been using to plan his attack on the Populaire, since the opera house was not a safe place to plot such things.

It was also why she was being kept there, away from the Phantom's eyes and ears. Though, Margot thought miserably as she pulled at her iron cuffs once again, Erik may not care anymore. He had accused her of working with the Viscount, wanting him to ride away with Christine when all Margot wanted to do was give the pompous _pridurok _a sound beating with her stupid cuffs.

And yet, with the thin floors of the bakery, Margot had to listen each day leading up to opening night of how Raoul planned to bar the exits and use Christine as bait to capture the Phantom.

Erik, she was confident, could dispose of all manner of things but the sheer number of police Raoul brought with him amazed and worried her. She dearly wished to warn him of the intricate details of the plot but Raoul would not risk allowing one of the Phantom's spies to run free with opening night upon them. Madame Giry was permitted since she was aiding the attacking guards but Margot, having been made to write a false letter to Christine, was sure that no one knew of her imprisonment.

She hated the Viscount de Chagny with a vengeance for what he had done to her in the name of protecting Christine but even more for what he planned to do to Erik, the monster of the Opera who deserved 'death and more' as Raoul put it. Margot feared for the man in the mask who had been her friend and the only man she'd ever loved, even though he clearly wanted nothing to do with her.

"Let me out!" Margot moaned again, futilely. As the sunlight began to dim from the crack beneath the basement door, Margot listened intently for any sign that they might let her out. Opening night had come quickly and now every man, including the pair stationed to keep her inside, was needed for Raoul's witch hunt. But there was no sign of what Raoul intended to do with her, if anything. She was sure he did not intend to hurt her; no, his ridiculous honour as a nobleman commanded that he treat her fairly and his love for Christine would not permit him to kill his fiancée's surrogate older sister. "Let me out you _svolochi!_"

Margot listened for any kind of response but as it grew noisier with the sounds of carriages and horses and laughter, she knew the opera had began and having locked the door, there was likely no one to hear her calls. After throwing herself at the door leading to freedom without success for nearly an hour after the opera was sure to have begun, Margot settled on the ground, helpless and did something she had not done in earnest since she was a little girl: she prayed.

_God in heaven, please help Erik, _she prayed, feeling useless. _He needs guidance and salvation; he's so lonely and he's pinned his hopes on Christine who will simply break his heart. Please Lord, grant him the strength to stop now. Grant him peace at last-_

Footsteps.

Margot froze and listened as they drew closer and closer to the door and she scrambled away from it, just in case it was a policeman come to retrieve her. But as the key- which Margot had realised when she could not peek out was still in the lock on the other side-began to turn in the lock and the door swung open, the figure on the other side could not have surprised Margot more.

* * *

At nearly the same time, Erik prepared to take Piangi's place, the fat, greedy tenor already in a collapsed pile of meat and bones behind him as he slipped his mask into place and took to the stage.

_It is time, _he thought, beginning the seductive ballad, his tall form entering the stage slowly as he marvelled at the sheer number of people in the theatre, all entranced by his opera. They could pretend all they liked, Erik mused as he called to Christine's beautiful voice to join his, but even the stuffy upper crust of society were bewitched by the carnal imagery and powerful lust the song provoked.

"_I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge," _he sang, his voice carrying out over the theatre. _Yes Christine, _he thought wildly watching as her eyes grew half lidded, totally entranced by the lust he was expressing through his song. _Now is the time, come join me, my Angel of Music._

As he had always known she would, Christine was the perfect offset to his music; her dulcet tones were the perfect balance to the raw power beneath his voice and as they climbed the prop platform that stretched across the stage, Erik could feel every moment he had been waiting for coming to fruition.

He through all he had left into his music, revelling in the moment when Christine fell into his arms, greedily running his hands across her body, right in front of her ridiculous fiancé and the unfathomably rich audience of _Don Juan Triumphant._

Christine rolled her head backward, arching into him, completely enthralled by the music. "_Say you'll share with me," _Erik crooned into her ear, savouring the feel of her so close, right within his grasp. "_one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude…"_

She paused suddenly, her eyes opening as she turned toward him, suddenly within his grasp and facing him, closer than she had ever been before to his monstrous visage. He unfurled his fingers and slowly revealed the gem encrusted ring he had been creating for years with her in mind. "_Say you'll want me __with you here, beside you…Anywhere you go, let me go too._" He pleaded, gently.

He breathed her in, consumed by having her so close. "Christine that's all I ask of-"

Suddenly, her fingers which had been caressing his face suddenly clenched around the mask covering the top half of his face and Erik recoiled only to find himself entirely revealed before the audience who screamed in terror. The betrayal stung sharper than any sword and lit a fire to his anger faster than any torch.

His hands tightened on her creamy flesh as she struggled away from him and suddenly everything he had known or imagined about his Angel was torn to pieces- a child, that's what she was. She was not the woman she had thought she could be. She was not the Angel he believed could understand him. A liar, a cheat, bait for his senses, a pretender! She was the gypsy girl she had been playing; cruel and unfeeling.

His face its own mask of fury, he drew his sword and sliced through the rope secured to the platform's railing, letting the carefully constructed mechanics of the chandelier fall into chaos as Erik grabbed his false Angel's arms and let them both drop into the trap door beneath the stage.

* * *

"La Carlotta?" Margot whispered, astounded by the turn of events. The diva on the other side of the door appeared somewhat surprised but mostly triumphant at the sight of her.

"Ah, Margot, I knew you must be here!" she trilled happily, using the key in her hand to unlock her cuffs. Margot pinched herself, sure she must still be dreaming.

"Mademoiselle Carlotta, _thankyou!_" she blurted out, confused. "But w-what are you doing here?"

La Carlotta preened at Margot's thanks. "Everyone knows the Viscount bought this old place, cara. As for me, I was waiting for the end of my story of course! But then I noticed you had disappeared and I remembered you arguing with that horrible patron!"

Indeed, the only person Raoul had forgotten to pacify with a falsehood of Margot's whereabouts was the diva herself who, having finished her opening and only scene for the night's opera, much to her disgust, had come to exact her revenge on the patron for snubbing her all those weeks ago. The fact that Margot had not finished her story meant that her absence was keenly noticed by the otherwise self-absorbed diva.

"You see, I know what you know, Margot _cara mia_," Carlotta purred as she escorted Margot from the abandoned bakery.

"You do?" Margot fretted.

"Of course," La Carlotta's smile was wicked. "You know about that horrid Daae girl's affair with the Phantom!"

Things began to make less sense to Margot who felt weak as she stumbled out onto the street outside La Populaire. "Christine's affair?"

"_Ma certamente!_" the diva said, with glee. "She must be the Phantom's little _puttana, _why else would he write her an opera?"

Margot's brow furrowed as she pieced it together. "And you thought Raoul-?"

"Must be covering up his little fiancée's mess!" La Carlotta finished, happily. "I know how the Daae girl chatters on to you, Margot, _mia cara, _she must have confessed. That awful patron took you to silence you along with this little attack he's prepared, am I right?"

"Y-Yes, signora," Margot covered herself quickly as she turned to the Populaire. "How clever you are! In fact," she improvised wildly. "I shall go reveal the Viscount and Christine's secret now shall I?"

"What an idea!" La Carlotta's eyes sparkled as Margot took off for the theatre, her gaze spotting a water drain to the left of one of the staircases immediately as her entry. _He must have taken her by now, _Margot thought, panicked as she slipped through the drain's grate. She listened as screams began to echo above her and trembled in fear that Erik had been caught.

Margot splashed into the sewers clumsily but soon caught her feet on the slick stone below. _All drains reach the lake, _she thought to herself, trying to follow the current as it led deeper and deeper into the underbelly of the Populaire.

The screams above her grew louder before they began to fade away, almost to entirety while Margot moved ever deeper. She kept her hand kept safely resting beside her cheek, studying the path carefully when candelabras appeared, a sure sign of the Phantom's presence in these waters.

Twice, a trip wire appeared, pulling gently across her throat and arms, and she paused, her hand following the line to a pair of spikes cleverly hidden in the walls. Once she was nearly caught in one of the mechanised grates that hung from the ceiling but Margot had a lifetime of evading Erik's traps and she edged her way past this one with little worry.

In her head, she kept a steady stream of positive thoughts over Erik and the Viscount's attack: _He must have evaded them, he must have. The screaming could not have gone on so long if he had been caught in the initial march and Erik does not need the doors Raoul barred, he can simply make his own-_

Suddenly her musings were interrupted by shouting coming from the opposite end of the catacombs, surprising her. "_Revenger for Piangi!" _the familiar voices of the opera workers bellowed across the watery chambers and the torchlight began to flicker on the wall near Margot as they drew closer.

She watched with growing horror as their mismatched shadows were joined by figures armed with bayonet rifles. "The police?" Margot whispered, ducking down behind a stone corner in the water. "They weren't supposed to leave the opera house."

"_Revenge for Buquet!" _The opera workers roared. "He's hunted us too long!"

"He must be stopped!"

"Murderer!"

"Arsonist!"

"Monster!"

Margot lifted herself onto one of the high platforms that ran along the side of the drain way, her hands slipping on the stones as she clambered upwards. _How many are there? _She tried to concentrate on voices, leaning closer and closer around the corner obscuring her from view, trying to catch a peek at themob. _Erik can not fight them all off…_

"Look!" the high pitched tone of the ballerinas shrieked and Margot suddenly saw the quivering girl pointing straight at her. "Look over there!"

Margot reared back, plastering herself against the shadowed wall as the opera workers' noisily splashed through the water toward her. "I saw someone!"

"The Ghost?"

"Kill him!"

"No!" someone screamed, hysterically. "It was a woman! A grey lady!"

"She looked terrified!"

"So pale!"

"I saw it too! It was that girl, the one who tells us stories!" Margot's heart broke to hear the voice of one of the little ballet rats join the confusion. _Children? They bring children down here? What if she gets caught in Erik's traps?_

"Margot?" her Uncle's voice said, tightly. Margot barely held in her gasp. "Margot is down here?"

"I'm sure it was her!"

"Impossible, the Viscount assured me she had left!" Uncle Franck argued ferociously, sounding tense. More sounds of murmurs and confusion, growing louder as some of the braver workers drew closer. Panicking, Margot scrambled around the next corner and plunged herself into the waters, pressing close to one of the more cavernous holes in the sewer walls to hide from view.

"Where is she now then?" one of the seamstresses demanded. Margot recognised the voice as Colette; she knew her well and would have been touched by the stress in her voice, had she not been part of the murderous mob trying to kill Erik.

"The Phantom must have killed her!" the little ballerina cried out, tearfully.

"Perhaps it's her spirit come to show us the way?" a stranger suggested and the mob burst into mutterings over the theory. Her idea beginning to grow, Margot felt around, her heart pounding, for one of the loose rocks below her. _Deep breaths, _she told herself as she lifted the rock in her hand, rearing back to carefully throw it as far away as she could in the opposite direction to the underwater cavern.

"What was that?" someone screamed at the splash.

"It must be Margot: she must want us to find her murderer!"

_No I do not want you to find him! _Margot felt like screaming. _I want you and the world to, for once, leave him alone in peace!_

"If she is even dead!" someone scoffed.

"I know what I saw!" the ballerina defended..

"Why?" Colette asked, shocked. "Why would he kill her-?"

"Why does the Phantom kill anyone?" Uncle Franck growled, his voice agitated. "He has killed my friend, our tenor and now my niece who had never offended him!"

"He cannot be allowed to continue!"

"He must be killed! He must be stopped!"

Margot listened as they took off, following her diversion, treading right past her. She knew that despite tricking her friends and only family into thinking her dead at the Ghost's hands, when she saw the sheer amount of people chasing down the catacombs, that it had been the right thing to do.

Her heart beating faster, she continued on.

* * *

By the time she felt the slimy stone beneath her begin to level, a sure sign that she was near the subterraneous lake of Erik's home, the sounds of sobbing and shouting began to reach her ears. Margot listened carefully, feeling elated at Erik's baritone and despairing of Raoul's fierce voice shouting to free Christine, who was crying for him.

_Oh Christine, _Margot thought, her eyes closing automatically. She knew her _solnyshka _was not cut out for this place but Erik was so in need of love and affection. His Angel's understanding would have meant the world to him and instead the pair unknowingly flaunted their relationship in his own sanctuary.

"_Don't throw away your life for my sake!_" Raoul shouted, hopelessly as Margot listened to him struggle against something. She found the hole in the wall leading to Erik's abode from the lake and pressed against it, waiting to someone her courage to make her final move.

"_When will you see reason…?_" Christine pleaded as finally Margot took a deep breath and dove under the misty water into the darkened hole. Though she knew where it lead, the initial panic of the unknown made her limbs freeze up, though Margot forced herself to swim forward into the dark. _It's for Erik, remember that._

* * *

Erik watched as Christine wept for her lover and felt his cold heart shatter. The only woman he had adored, the only woman who could bring his music, his soul to life, wept for another man, a man who was at the end of his rope finally.

The ridiculous _fop _was pinned to his iron gate, struggling to free himself using the sword he could barely reach given the restricted range of motion. He was helpless before Erik, who could snap his neck any time he liked and yet the feeling brought little satisfaction in the face of his devastation.

His Angel had been a fraud all along; Christine was not the woman he had imagined her to be, not mature enough to respect him, nor compassionate enough to understand him. All she saw was the hideousness of his face, revealed now for all of them to see, his mask laying somewhere beyond the lake.

All his plans had come to an end, all his fears realised and playing out before him. His opera house had turned against him, angered by his pranks and control. His Angel longed for the arms of another and even if she agreed to stay with him, it would mean nothing. Even _cherie _, his sweet, brave Margot, had left the Populaire, repulsed by his actions.

He had nothing left but his revenge against the man that had been the catalyst for it all, the handsome Viscount who now clutched his sword in one hand bound to the gate, waving it around futiley. The weapons reach had become too limited, it could no more harm to him than a feather could. Erik gritted his teeth, his mind blinded by thoughts of hatred and revenge as he prepared to snap the Viscount's puny neck-

A figure from the corner of his eyes, arising from the depths of the secret entrance near where the Viscount was bound, paused his movements.

"Margot?" Christine gasped, immediately reaching from the shores of his home for the girl who floundered, gasping in the misty waters.

In his red-tinted state, Margot's arrival made no sense- he had heard that she had left, which she had already told him she would, the Populaire for good, for some other city. To arrive here, now, was impossible and yet-

And yet one gaze did not seem surprised to find Margot Ferrand in Paris.

"_You!_" Raoul accused, his restrained arms reaching out just far enough to grab Margot from where she was coughing the excess water. "You helped him didn't you?"

"Raoul no!" Christine screamed as his hand yanked the petite woman toward him.

Erik automatically pulled on his lasso tighter, intending to kill the Viscount before he could further harm Margot but the hateful noble had pulled Margot back against him, one hand on her throat, the other on the sword Erik had deemed useless, rested against her neck.

"I know all about you and this _harlot, _you monster!" Raoul shouted as Margot froze, the blade at her throat pressed deep against her flesh.

Christine sobbed. "Raoul, no, please, you don't understand!"

"They conspired against you Christine!" her fiancé stated, flatly. "She is undeserving of your loyalty."

"This cannot be true, please, you've made a mistake-!" Christine pleaded but Erik could no longer focus on the rage directed at her. His eyes, misshapen though the right may have been, were fixed on the pale flesh of Margot's neck as her body shook with fear. _Oh Margot, _he exasperated internally. _Why did you come?_

"It is true Christine," Raoul declared, his own gaze determined. "Let my fiancée go, Phantom or I shall kill her."

"I thought you were a nobleman," Margot whispered, her voice hoarse from nearly drowning and terrified as the sword nicked at her skin.

"My instincts where Christine's safety is concerned take precedent!" Raoul shot back, angrily. "Besides, you are no lady."

Erik's heart seemed to freeze, his fantastically quick mind consumed with his plans. He could kill the Viscount but he might kill Margot in the process. He could threaten Christine but even he could not find it within him to harm such a woman, let alone the lady he claimed to adore. Or he could submit and allow Christine to leave and Margot to live.

Despite the confusion his heart and pride and brain was in, his hands knew their only option immediately as they dropped the lasso and watched Christine, his love, his Angel, race across the lake to free her fiancé.

"Go now," he murmured hoarsely as Margot fell into the stone of the wall, shaking and clutching her neck while Raoul embraced Christine tightly. "Forget this, forget all of this."

Christine glanced at Margot fearfully. "Margot, come, hurry-" she reached out to the pale skinned girl, though Raoul, now freed, tried to keep her away. She expected her friend to clutch her to her, to hug her and comfort her as she always had but shock and horror spread across her face as Margot recoiled from the soprano, her eyes on the Phantom.

"Go Christine," she told her, flatly. "There is a mob coming and it would do well for them not to see you." The questions asked should the growing opera mob discovered the Viscount in the Phantom's gondola, the soon to be Viscountess in a wedding dress, unharmed and alive? No, Margot thought privately, Raoul would not want such mystery and speculation surrounding his new wife.

"Margot? What?" Christine stared with astonishment as Erik lifted the iron gate from the water and Raoul scooped her into the gondola that lay floating beside them. "No! Raoul, stop! Margot, please, you must come with us, she _must _come with us-!"

"Go _solnyshka,_" Margot told her, fiercely. "Go now."

Raoul grabbed his fiancée's hand and ripped the expensive, diamond encrusted engagement ring off her fingers. He tossed it at the Phantom's feet, utter disgust across his expression as he pushed off from the shore. "The blood he spilt his on your hands." He declared to Margot who merely spat at his feet when he floated past.

"What are you doing? _Margot, what are you doing?"_ Christine cried out as her fiancé pushed her away from the candlelit nightmare of the Phantom's home by the lake, until the light had all but faded.

* * *

_cara mia - _Italian meaning 'my dear'

_Ma certamente! - _Italian meaning 'But of course' or 'Certainly!'

_puttana - _Italian meaning 'slut'

* * *

**A/N: So...what'd you think? SIX REVIEWS PLEASE, TIL CHAPTER TWELVE where the movie finally ends.**


	12. Chapter Twelve

**A/N: Please hold off throwing the rotten tomatoes until the end, I've been very very busy in reality.**

**This chapter goes to RedDeathLvr, one of my most faithful reviewers, who I have not given enough to love to since she's been reviewing practically every chapter from the start. You're awesome!**

**Love,**

**Shy.**

* * *

_CHAPTER TWELVE_

* * *

Spring, 1880  
_Manor de Changy  
Toulouse, France_

* * *

Christine looked inside the envelope for another page but it appeared as though she had run out. "No, no, no," the Countess murmured as she flipped over each of the scrawled upon sheet and check her remaining letters for another package. "No!"

"What is it, my love?" Raoul arrived inside the doorway of her library as though he'd been waiting there.

Christine stared up at him with tearful eyes. "The letter ended. Margot did not write anymore."

"Why would you want to hear more of such a tragic tale?" Raoul demanded as he collected her in his arms. "A tale you lived through?"

He had known from the moment Christine had pried open the envelope that no good would come of reading that foul woman's words. Since the first time they had met, the mutual dislike between Mademoiselle Margot Ferrand the Viscount Raoul de Chagny had been palpable. She did not heed her place in society and filled Christine's head with nonsense of stories in far off lands and mysterious characters.

At first, he'd been surprised that she had not submitted to his higher authority but his surprise soon turned to annoyance as she continually flaunted her lack of propriety in the Viscount's face with hidden mocking and snappy words. Though Christine had claimed her to be beautiful on numerous occasions and Raoul could see how perhaps a change of temperament into something sweeter, _quieter _might help, he himself had never seen much promise in the young woman who used her rough foreign tongue to curse and chatter and most of all, endear Christine to her.

"Because I did not see it as Margot did," Christine confessed. "I have learnt so much tonight-"

"This morning, my dear," Raoul corrected, gently. He gestured to the enormous windows of the library. "You read through the night."

Christine's brow furrowed as she took in the dawn light pouring through her window and the burned out candles. "I-I did?"

"_Oui._ I asked you many times to come back to bed but you did not seem to hear me." Raoul looked uncertain. "I was not sure you weren't simply ignoring me."

Christine honestly could not remember Raoul's voice or any of his attempts to speak with her. As had once occurred with the Angel of Music all those years ago, Christine had been entranced by Margot's words, consumed by them. She had been blind to the rest of the world, including her husband.

"It is a riveting tale," she admitted, collecting the pages together and arranging them with the bow.

"Perhaps I might-" Raoul began but almost without thought, Christine pulled the pages away from his outstretched hand.

She paused, unsure of her actions before she composed herself. "Margot wrote them for me. Her story, it- well, it surprises me."

Raoul took it as an accusation. "I did what I had to to protect you, Christine." He defended, instantly.

"I know, my love," Christine replied, stroking his clenched fist. Though it remained a bitter point with her, Christine had managed to at least accept her husband's shortcomings where Margot Ferrand was concerned. Their mutual hatred was evident in the way Margot refered to him as _Christine's _viscount. "But you were right in the end, if only about their relationship."

"What madness has she been filling your head with?" Raoul muttered.

Christine glared at her husband, the expression, of mixed surprise and scorn, odd on her usually sweet tempered visage. "She knew him since she was a little girl, Raoul. She knew him when the rest of the world had no interest to know him except to be cruel to him."

"She has made you sympathise with him!" Raoul accused.

"She has not!" Christine clutched her engagement ring, the one that Raoul had given to her as a promise to keep her safe. "I still have dreams about that night but she has shown me how she came to choose him. How she came to love him."

"Love," Raoul scoffed, staring darkly at the incoming light. "The Phantom did not know how to love."

* * *

Christine waited each day for Marcel to return her letters to her with another of Margot's packages but the butler's empty hands were a constant disappointment for the Countess.

The gossip of the French aristocracy circulated on her strange behaviour; the Viscountess had turned away her regular tea parties and shunned the latest balls and events. Her husband claimed illness and for a while, rumours of babes and pregnancy swept society away.

However nearly a month passed and the couple did not announce a prospective heir; instead, the Viscount continued his business and apologised for his sickly wife, though the servants of the de Chagny manor spoke that the lady of the house was quite well but so unlike her usual self.

Instead of charming and sparkling, Christine de Chagny became prone to days of wallowing and sadness.

The rest of society was surprised and confused by the sudden turn of events: had she lost the babe they had been expecting? Had she discovered a mistress of her husband's? Had there been a death in the family?

The only one who knew was the Countess and her husband and neither were speaking.

Oblivious to the rumour mill churning away, Christine had reverted to her memories, re-reading Margot's letter and story, trying to understand how the woman she had known could have fallen in love with such a man.

She considered each piece of the story, each time Erik had saved Margot from loneliness or pain as a child, a girl and a woman; the Countess most closely followed the sections she had been present for and then inspected her own recollection.

How had she misunderstood Margot's longing looks for ones of fear? How had she misread her pain at hearing the Phantom's dark desire for her as concern for Christine? The puzzle began to slip into place slowly, piece by piece until the night Margot had finished her letter. That dreadful night when she had been forced into a crude wedding dress and coerced to marry the loathsome creature she had once named her Angel of Music.

When they had arrived on the surface, Christine had been overwhelmed with twin sensations of relief and horror. She was free from the Phantom's grip and his reign had ended but Margot had been left down there with the monster.

Despite his attempts, Raoul could not convince her that Margot had been a co-conspirator in her kidnapping. "_Christine, the evidence is before your eyes!" _he'd pleaded. "_That woman tricked you! She chose to stay down there!"_

But Christine's guilty conscience had lingered, even when her mind brought the moment of Margot's choice to the brink of her thoughts. Shivering, Christine had allowed herself to be comforted by Raoul and later Madame Giry, who was horrified that her own daughter had joined the group searching the catacombs for the Phantom.

The mob ransacked the underground cave but had found no trace of the Phantom except his mask and many of the opera workers who had never believed in the Phantom's mortality, supposed that he had been vanquished for his evil crimes.

And yet, when the mob resurfaced, police and opera workers alike informed Christine and Raoul that they had seen the ghost of Margot Ferrand and that she was indeed dead at the hands of the Phantom.

Though she had never liked the man, it was the look of numbness of Margot's uncle, the blankness of Franck Ferrand's face that convinced her that their story was true and that in freeing herself and her love, both Christine and Raoul had condemned Margot to death.

_I thought we had left her, _Christine thought, her gaze lingering on the fine grounds of the de Chagny manor. Everything was crisp this time of year; she felt as though the snow both fogged and clarified the lines of the gardens. For so long, Christine had struggled to accept her friend's fate, even as she married her prince charming and began her life anew and away from the Populaire and the nightmares that haunted her.

And yet Margot's story clarified the ramblings of the opera workers that morning, when the news was broken to her; they _had _seen her and imagined her dead as a ghost, but long before Margot had chosen to stay with the Ghost. In her pain, Christine had only seen her guilty conscience, not the facts.

Raoul had confessed to how he had kept Margot prisoner in the patisserie across the street from the Opera House after they had married and Christine could barely look at him for weeks, though she did eventually accept it as his way of protecting her. Raoul had always tried to protect her and she could not fault him for it.

* * *

"Christine?"

The Countess de Chagny turned quickly from her place in front of the fireplace in the library eagerly only to find Raoul's conflicted face in the doorway instead of Marcel's carrying another letter. Her face dropped noticeably. "Yes?"

Raoul sighed and made his way to the couch she sat upon, clutching his hands. "I have thought long about what I should do," he confessed before closing his eyes and flicking his fingers to summon Marcel who appeared out of nowhere.

"Raoul, what-?" As she began to question her husband's strange actions, Marcel unfurled the brown paper envelope in his grasp to her. Christine recognised the handwriting on the front immediately and gasped at her husband's deception. "Oh Raoul…"

"I thought it would only make you worse," he admitted, watching with sad eyes as Christine clutched the parcel to her. "I thought you would recover from whatever horrible stories that woman has been feeding you-"

"That woman cared for me as a sister, Raoul!" Christine cried, tearfully. "You do not understand but Margot was all I had at one point and her story-"

"It has made you turn away your friends!" he interjected, loudly as Marcel disappeared discreetly into the background. "Made you unable to see your own husband!"

"-is all I have of her." Christine finished, crying in earnest now. "Leave me Raoul, I wish for my peace again."

"Christine-"

"_Leave me!_"

There was a pause while her husband strode from the room angrily and Christine stared down at Margot's newest letter. It was marked as having arrived three days ago though from where was anyone's guess. She eyed the fireplace and considered tossing the whole parcel in and let it burn, let the source of her most current arguments with her love burn away.

But she could not. Instead she untied the parcel and out spilled dozens of new pages and a smaller envelope much like the first.

* * *

_To my dear solnyshka,_

_I am sorry to have stopped writing so abruptly but I was unsure if it were wise to continue. I know that you and your Viscount have not forgiven Erik and I fear that once you know the truth of what happened that night, after the pair of you sailed away, you will try to find him._

_I cannot let that happen, Christine._

_I love you and I always will, my little sunshine, my little pretty sister, but should your beloved attempt to hunt Erik down again like an animal, I shall not hesitate. I will do whatever it takes to protect him, Christine. Whatever I must do to secure his happiness._

_What follows is what no one knows. The history of the disappeared Phantom. It must remain secret Christine. Whatever happens, this is what I trust you with when I write these pages. The air grows lighter as spring approaches and I can feel peace begin to sink in, having informed you of these happenings. It is time to let the past go, Christine._

_With much love,_

_Margot Laurent_

And once again, Viscountess Christine de Chagny began to read.

* * *

**A/N: I know it's been forever but I keep holding off so I can post the outtake with it. But then I got stuck and didn't want to make you all wait. So here is the interlude (what you thought Margot would writed everything down at once? Give the girl a break) and I really hope you enjoy it!**


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N: And so, we're finallly here where the creativity starts flowing. I hope you enjoy this guys, I had alot of fun* writing it. **

**Ransom for Chapter Fourteen: Six reviews please.**

**(* as much as could be had. Watch out for some major Erik-self-loathing here guys, I hear it's contagious)**

* * *

_CHAPTER THIRTEEN_

* * *

_You must know by now, Christine, that Erik was a genius._

_Artistic, mathematical, architectural, philosophical- he excelled in all arenas and he did so with little grace as to his own superior intellect. I cannot tell you how frustrating it was for him to, at a young age, take my Russian cursing, a language only _I _knew and use it against me with fluency. He was a regular man in that respect, far too knowledgeable of his own splendour._

_However, it also meant that Erik never built, said, designed, invented anything without thinking three steps ahead of everyone around him. I confess that it annoyed me on occasion; Erik constantly spoke to me as though he'd already seen the future and was simply waiting with anticipation for it to come true._

_That is why it confused me so when his plans to love you fell apart, Christine. My love for him made me blind too; I could not understand why you would not return his affection, to the man who had sculpted your voice so beautifully. But when I first saw you and the Viscount, I whispered a warning for Erik to be careful and like he did with most things he wanted, he invested his entire being into your relationship._

_When it burned, he burned with it. The Erik you left behind was not the Phantom everyone feared, nor the person he had once been before you even arrived. As horribly distorted as he found himself to be, his lust for power, control, vengeance and ultimately possession of you, solnyshka, it ripped through him and I watched the man I love crumble into the darkness he had revelled in._

_But the cave was not a creation of that Erik. It was a creation of the Phantom's genius and it too was built three steps ahead of the game…_

* * *

Winter, 1871  
_Catacombes  
Paris, France_

* * *

"What are you doing? _Margot, what are you doing?"_ Christine cried out into the darkness but Margot hardened her heart against the screams and ran to Erik's side as he collapsed before his mirrors.

In the course of thirteen years of friendship, she had of course caught glimpses of his unmasked visage but as he felt against the mirrors, his head cracking the delicate glass and splitting it, Margot witnessed her first unrestrained look of Erik's real face and felt hatred for the deformity that had led its owner into cruelty and darkness.

"Erik?" she whispered, kneeling beside him, her hand finding Christine's engagement ring at his feet and squirrelling it away into her soaked green-white dress. "Erik, come we must go."

"You were right, _cherie,_" Erik spoke slowly, painfully. "You were right." He stood, shakily, pacing his cave, running his hands over his face as though he were discovering it for the first time.

"I'm always right," she tried to brush his words off as she tried to keep his shocked and heartbroken mind with her. "But we must go now. Erik, tell me, where is the way out? _Tell me?_"

Erik simply looked at her, bitterness spread across his face. "Scream _cherie,"_ he told her. "I know you must want to."

"Why would I do something so ridiculous?" Margot snapped, listening as the mob began to draw nearer and nearer. "Think Erik, where is the way out?" she knew he must have one. All of the Phantom's creations had a way out, an ingeniously hidden trapdoor or escape route only he knew. It was their only way out before the mob came and tore him apart like a trapped animal.

The unmasked cripple did not respond to her, instead studying the advancing torchlight thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should not escape, _cherie. _Would the world be happier then?" he mused as Margot grabbed a spare coat that had been thrown in the corner and tugged it around his shoulders.

Margot could hardly bear to hear such words come out of his mouth and grabbed the lapels of his shirt tightly, yanking him toward her, furiously. "Snap out of this Erik, we have to leave, before they come! _Where is the way out?_" she begged, nearly hysterical.

Erik disconnected her, staring into the mirror behind him. "You should stay Margot," he said quietly. "They will only attack me. You can pretend I kidnapped you as well, they all know how I love to do _that._"

"Erik, _please._" She breathed, searching the walls for some lever, some catch that would allow them passage. "Where can we go?"

The Phantom rubbed his eyes. "Why _cherie?_ Why should I leave?"

Margot closed her eyes for a moment and clutched fistfuls of his shirt so tightly in her fingers that her knuckles turned white and tensed under her skin. She leant down, purposely into his right ear.

"To spare me the sight of having the man I love torn apart by a vicious mob." She whispered, fiercely. "You're a fool if you think the Viscount will let me live should I return with them; they think I'm dead, let it stay that way. Now tell me _where is the way out?_"

It would surprise Margot for years to come that Erik's stupefied form had gestured to the velvet robe covered mirror behind her.

Too pressed for time to consider the sheer stupidity of confessing her feeling for Erik _now, _Margot stood and grabbed one of the candle holders, a heavy brass ornament, from his organ and heaved all the strength she had in her body at the mirror.

It shattered immediately, the glass sounding as delicate and tinkling as the highest notes of the first flute, and grabbing Erik's arm, Margot pulled him into the hollow revealed behind it, tugging the velvet down after them just as the torchlight began to flicker before the lake's wide mouth.

* * *

Erik being Erik, the way out of his cave was not an easy trek. It was a steep climb upwards, through mud and slime and icy stone. Margot could barely keep her breaths even as she beckoned Erik along, all the while painfully conscious of the voices echoing behind her.

After nearly twenty minutes of climbing, Margot felt her hand catch on a lever cleverly hidden in the darkness which unleashed a rockslide that buried anyone trying to follow the pair. Margot would have marvelled at the cleverness of Erik's plan had she not been exhausted.

All the way up, between fearing the mob behind them and remembering Christine's screams and Raoul's sword pressed to her neck, Margot berated herself for confessing such feelings for Erik. She could hardly look at him, her humiliation so great. How could she have thought such words appropriate? So immediately after his Angel and muse had deserted him in favour of a most hated enemy?

As they began to reach the surface however, Margot scolded herself even more thoroughly for fretting over such ridiculous thoughts rather than worry over their survival.

The opera house was all Erik had ever known and though Margot was sure he had a plan for survival, having exited the narrow climb, she was unsure that asking for it and preparing to reshape it to fit themselves was a task she could accomplish. _He plotted this for his life with Christine, _she thought, painfully. How would she fit into such a plan?

But no matter. She must. The alternative was too horrible to think of. Margot straightened as they reached the peak of their climb, the Paris traffic echoing loud above her through the grate covering the entrance to the drain. She was the only one who could help now; Erik's distorted, unmasked face was too recognisable. He would be caught within seconds. He could not be allowed to save them this time.

Faced with the prospect of keeping Erik alive and safe from the mobs, Margot watched Erik opened the drainage grate above her with trepidation. She had no idea what she was doing but her goal was simple: to keep Erik hidden and alive.

Shaking with exertion, Margot examined the alley they had exited into and quickly realised Erik's plans as she noticed the simple but somewhat expensive _Hotel du Mars _they were hiding in the shadows of. "I would have stayed here with her," Erik whispered, his tone self-loathing. "Once she brought me into the light."

Holding her tongue against a thousand Russian curses concerning Christine and the legitimacy of her mother's birth, Margot studied the somewhat calmer Parisian street and the carriages which passed frequently by. No doubt Erik would have reservations but they needed to get to them.

Her mind suddenly unravelling with ideas, she scooped up the mud from the tunnel and pressed it over the right side of Erik's face, gently but forcefully. "Follow me," she demanded, splattering the mud across her own body as well.

She tugged Erik toward the front reception of the _Hotel du Mars _and, upon seeing no one at the desk, tugged open the coat closet behind the manager's desk and grabbed the first thick furs she could find, as well as a luxurious top hat and scarf and a cane from the umbrella holder.

"Put these on!" she hissed, tugging one of the furs on herself while she rang the bell impatiently. Erik followed her suggestions, his usual confidence withered in the face of society. The manager of the hotel, a scrawny man with a thin moustache arrived, concern and repulsion evident in his expression. "Yes?" he drawled and Margot took the lead, channelling every one of her characters and stories into her words.

"Monsieur, thank goodness!" she said, desperately, clutching at his arm. "We arrived so late, we were worried no one would help us!"

"Madame, may _I _help you?" the manager asked, sceptically.

"I hope so," she breathed, batting her eyelashes. "You see we arrived at the Gare de Lyon station but our luggage was lost on the train and then the carriage splattered us with _mud _and we simply want to retire to our rooms for the evening-!"

The manager's face was pink as he nodded along with Margot's story and barely glanced at Erik to certify it. "W-Well Madame, I need a name for the reservation," he stuttered.

Margot paused for a split second before she took a leap of faith; after all, Erik had intended to start his new life with Christine here, what other room would he have ordered? "The honeymoon suite monsieur!" she cried out, tears in her eyes. "We rented it months ago!"

Her wailing was obviously distressing to the manager who bustled around his desk and fingered the slips of paper there. "Madame, please do not cry-! Let me see, let me see…Dupperay, Forson, Thierry- aha! _Pierre! _Monsieur and Madam Pierre, in the honeymoon suite!" the manager stuttered, relieved as Margot began to 'calm herself'.

Offering to show them to their room as Margot took the keys, the manager looked eager to keep his newest guest from wailing. Congratulating herself on the amazing improvisation, Margot refused to allow herself peace until they had made it to the room and locked the door behind them. "No monsieur, we have already disturbed you enough," she claimed, regretfully. "Please, won't you have water sent to our suite and let us all rest after our horrible evening?"

"Yes, of course, Madame," the manager rushed to send orders to the maid as Margot pulled Erik toward the stairs and up to the second level where their room lay. "Will that be all monsieur?" the manager echoed but Erik did not respond and frantically, Margot pulled back on the manager's arm, gently.

"I apologise for my husband, monsieur, he is so angry from the journey, he doesn't wish to lose his temper on someone so accommodating." She said with a pretty smile.

"Then I bid you goodnight Madame," the manager said, sounding unsure whether he was quite aware of what had just happened as the door shut behind the couple.

Margot let herself breathe finally as Erik collapsed by the bed, his eyes flat through the mud caking his face. "Your surname is Pierre?" Margot guessed, trying desperately to ignore the last words she'd said to him.

"No but I would have shared it with her," Erik murmured, his voice sounding distant. "I would have shared anything with her."

Margot turned, finally realising the physical symptoms of the night's shock in his foggy voice, glossy eyes and weak limbs. She remembered from the brief split second glances of him in the tunnels, of how she had noticed his hands shaking with every climb and thought nothing of it but the chill.

_Illness from a broken heart? _Margot had never heard such a thing but she suspected that it stretched further than simply one night; Erik had neglected meals and health for weeks leading up to _Don Juan Triumphant _and it appeared to be sinking in now.

When the water pitchers arrived by a maid, Margot took them in at the door politely and poured out the liquid into a bowl by Erik's side at the foot of the queen sized bed. She pulled off the furs that had become stuck to her skin because of the mud and slowly began to wipe away the grime from her own hands and face with a towel from the en-suite.

"Here," she said, quietly, helping him clean off the mud.

"I would have shared anything with her…" he murmured.

"I know." Was all Margot could reply.

* * *

As she soon discovered, the honeymoon suite had been allocated to them for at least a week and Margot felt relieved for the prepaid room as Erik succumbed further to fever and malnutrition.

He eventually moved himself to the bed and Margot took the stuffed couch at night, though she was up constantly to grab more water or calm the man down when his fever took him. Recalling everything she could about how she had aided her uncle when he had succumbed to a similar disease as influenza, Margot tried to keep the room stocked with food and fresh water and everything she needed to help Erik recover. She was surprised at how well he had held sickness off but it was hitting him now with a vengeance.

Margot took the already paid for meals the maids brought to her room gratefully and asked the manager if he should mind leaving their suite alone from housecleaning. "We do not wish to be, _ahem, _disturbed." She'd sent him her best flirtatious look as she'd giggled and the manager had not been heard from since.

All the while feeling a touch mortified, Margot had continued playing the role of blushing honeymooner and asked one of the younger maids to bring her and her 'husband' some new clothes, telling her to ask the manager to reimburse her out of their room costs. "He is so aggressive," Margot had whispered, blushing. "We have ruined the clothes we _did _have."

The giggling maid had done just that and found, upon Margot's instructions, a pair of gowns, one pale blue and the other a soft brown, a headscarf and hat for her and a new, plain brown and white ensemble for Erik, though he was hardly in the frame of mind to try them on for size. Erik's fever brought him nightly delusions and Margot worked hard to get enough food in him to fight the sickness of.

"Eat something," she ordered one night when Erik had overpowered the illness for a short time. Though he complied and ate as much of the rich food as Margot ordered, all without a word, she knew that his mind had captured her confession in the caves and that it was ticking away with ways of progressing from there.

Margot could not afford the time needed to think of such things; she had gone out one morning toward the end of their stay at the _Hotel du Mars _and picked up a paper, all the while hiding her face in the depths of her scarf. The newsboy on the corner was preaching his story of the mysterious Populaire disaster and while she told herself it was for research into their next actions, Margot was desperate to discover the result of the evening.

The paper had little information other than the deaths in the fire Erik had caused with the chandelier, the return of the lovely soprano Miss Daae to her now husband, the Viscount, and of course, the appearance and disappearance of a certain Phantom.

Margot felt pleased to see her name went unmentioned by the article but fretted over its attention to detail concerning the _twisted, demonic half face of the Phantom of the Opera _as it appeared to the audience. Erik, while recovering finally, could not leave the room without someone most certainly discovering him.

Though Margot hated to do it, she had to give the Phantom back his mask.

* * *

"I cannot Margot!" Erik hissed as she threw his clothes toward him. Though still weak from the illness, his fever had broken and the work toward health was all downhill from that point.

"You must." She said, firmly. "We need money Erik, this is the last day of our stay and I need another to work out our next move."

"Then you go," he gasped, taking the clothes if only to cover his torso which bore the whip marks and scars of his former life with the gypsies.

Margot felt as though she could smack him. They had yet to say anything about her confession and it weighed on her nerves. "They are _your _accounts!"

There was no doubting Erik had amassed a fortune embezzling money from the managers of the Populaire and having Madame Giry invest it all in certain ventures which had paid off quite well. His money was kept, surprisingly, in a vault at the _Banc du Lafayette _though he had never had to access much of it before. His clothes, supplies and food all came from the Populaire itself and Erik had had no need to dig into his funds before.

_But we are not under the Populaire now, _Margot thought, frustrated. _And I need another day._

Her plan had almost formed itself, for now revolving around moving them away from Paris, perhaps away from France entirely. The Viscount no doubt knew the Phantom could be alive and she doubted if the irritating bastard could resist trying to track down Erik once and for all.

She had almost come up with a way but she needed another night.

"I cannot go and claim money from them Erik, you _know _how banks work." She said, scornfully as she wrapped her scarf about her head and tossed his coat at him. Still no words about her confession.

Erik scowled. "And how do you suppose I go out?" he hissed, gesturing to his uncovered face. "The Phantom's mask is gone now Margot."

Margot regretfully brought the bandages and surgical tape she had asked the maid for. "We shall give you a new mask then."

* * *

"Monsieur Pierre, is it?" the bank manager asked, eyebrows raised. They had been ushered to his office upon asking to withdraw money from Erik's account and Margot felt a thrill of nerves down her spine. "May I ask the reason as to extracting your francs? Our records show you never have before."

Margot could feel Erik tensing at his side and she stepped, forward, smiling sweetly. "Monsieur, my husband, he was injured in the fire at the Populaire," she murmured, discreetly. "There is a doctor doing much work for such victims but we wish to pay our fee, more discreetly. Thomas," she said, grabbing the name of Madame Giry's late husband. "is a very important businessman back home- it would not do for him to be seen spending money as such."

The story was carried off by Erik's closed of demeanour and the bandages wrapped around his face, covering the right side from view.

The bank manager's face revealed his interest in her story. "You saw the masked man of the opera house?" he said, gossipy.

Margot floundered for an instant as Erik cut in, bitterly. "You mean the masked monster?"

"Well yes," the bank manager said, surprised at his sudden interjection. "You saw him?"

"We did and I've no wish to think of anything so disgusting again." Erik proclaimed, his tone cutting.

The bank manager, looking abashed, transferred the withdrawal through without complaint.

As they arrived back at the _Hotel du Mars _and paying out another day in their suite, Margot paused, unable to keep her comments inside herself. "Why did you say that? To the bank manager?"

"I said nothing that was untrue." His tone nearly frightened her with the abhorrence in it as he tossed his coat to the side and stared hatefully at the brightly lit window.

Margot, having tugged off her scarf, moved slowly towards him, worried at this sudden turn of intense self-hatred. "You are not _'disgusting' _Erik, you're a man. A human being."

"And yet I feel as though I've finally become to devil's child the gypsies always proclaimed me to be." he argued, icily.

"How can you say such things?" Margot demanded, anger and shock in her voice.

"I have killed innocent people," he turned, furiously, his good eye glinting. "I have hurt innocent people, all to get what I want. I thought I deserved it, I thought life owed me something but I was sorely mistaken. _She,_" a week after the incident and Erik could still not bring himself to say her name. "never wanted me yet I refused to see."

"That's not true," Margot rebutted quietly. "The love you shared with Christine-"

"_Shared?" _Erik exploded. "No, sharing is mutual. She never loved me and I persisted. I injured people, blackmailed them, threatened them, all because I thought she owed me her affections. Dear God, Margot, just look at what I have done to you!"

"Erik, I've all but forgotten that day!" she cried out, recalling her fear as he pressed his hands to her throat. It felt so long ago now. "Your anger that day- I've forgiven it-!"

"That day?" Erik gave a bitter laugh. "No, I speak of that _night. _I've ruined you, Margot. I coerced you into the illusion of loving a _monster._"

Though Margot had thought of this conversation many times in her head, it had never ended like this. "What do you mean, coerced me? Erik, I love y-"

"Don't repeat it!" he said, scathingly. "I've manipulated you into believing such feelings somehow, they cannot honestly be true."

Margot felt as though he could have slapped her and have it hurt less. "You don't believe me?" she whispered.

"I've torn you from the Populaire, I have preyed upon your kindness in helping me." Erik refused to turn away from the window. "Loving a Ghost is impossible, _cherie, _it cannot be real."

Before he could say anything else that might destroy her already battle-worn heart, Margot grabbed her worn purse from the vanity and fled the hotel.

* * *

**A/N: **

**Who's your favourite character so far?**


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**A/N: See? I said six reviews and I uploaded the second I got it! I know alot of you don't like this ransom but I'm egocentric and desperate for feedback so humour me and I'll post as quickly as you'd like :)**

**Also, I'm flattered that so many of you considered Margot your favourite character and I hope you'll bear with both of them, they're not out of the woods yet.**

**Thankyou so much to everyone who reviews, I couldn't do this without your support :)**

**Shy.**

* * *

_CHAPTER FOURTEEN_

* * *

_I very nearly did not come back, solnyshka. That man tortured me by doubting the legitimacy of my feelings and I felt such rage that I nearly left him to his own demise. But it was the memories of all the times over the years where Erik had helped me, saved me, provided me with a haven to run to when the loneliness grew too hard to bear._

_I could not turn my back on him, Christine, no more than you could turn your back on your 'noble saviour'._

_Instead I took a long walk around Paris, even daring to walk to the Populaire which was a necessary step in my plans. From there, I tried to trace a path I had fought to remember for many years since I was fifteen and my Uncle had nearly lost his job in the Populaire._

_You see, Uncle Franck had a penchant for girls and wine and it caused him a great deal of trouble. When he bedded the young daughter of a visiting English Duke, her father was furious; Uncle nearly caused an international incident. But Monsieur LeFevre certainly wouldn't have come to his defence against foreign nobility and so Uncle got in contact with a man named Henri Mercier._

_Mercier was a trader of favours and francs, based in the southern part of Paris. Essentially, he was a man that made things happen quickly and quietly. My uncle took me with him so I would be wrapped up in the dishonest dealings going on, to dissuade me from ever confessing. The police would have arrested everyone in connection with Mercier had they known of him…_

* * *

Spring, 1871  
_13eme Arrondissement  
Paris, France_

* * *

Margot finally found her path, the way engraved into her mind but without order. Every now and then, she passed a shop or a home and knew she was in the right area but she passed the side alley nearly four times before she recognised it for what it was.

She had been wandering the streets of Paris all afternoon and into the early evening, keeping her tasks ahead of her at the forefront of her mind. If she tried to think otherwise, echoes of Erik's words from the morning would resonate through and keep her crippled in place.

…_illusion…manipulated you…it cannot be real…_

Had he simply told her that he couldn't return her feelings, Margot believed she could've dealt with it. But to hear him doubt her was simply agonizing and she had seriously reconsidered her plans.

But after nearly an hour of walking around, seeing the busy Parisians move about the city and feeling envious on Erik's behalf, Margot had decided that Erik deserved the new start she was prepared to sort out for them both.

And it all began with a ring.

Christine's ring, to be precise- the one her idiotic Viscount had tossed at Erik's feet. It was an enormously beautiful piece; fashioned from diamonds and gold, engraved on every spare space Erik could find. And it had to be worth a fortune.

Margot had taken it after her argument with Erik, half out of spite though she wasn't sure he knew she had it. It had made her feel better at least but as she passed one of the expensive jewelleries in the city, Margot had entered, curious of the ring's actual worth.

What she found astounded her; the jeweller had leapt at the chance to buy such a ring from her and proclaim the work as his own. _"The craftsmanship,_" he'd sighed, dreamily. "_The delicacy. It's stunning, how much do you want for it?_"

On a hunch, she'd refused any offer he gave and moved to the next jewellery shop along the street. The man in that store had offered her the same sort of price, though upon hearing his competition's offer, he'd raised the price considerably.

Margot continued along, asking how much the four or so jewellers would pay for such an item and raising their offers by reminding them of the other buyers she already had. The last man she exchanged the ring to, was by far the most pleasurable to speak with and the most joyful at having the ring in his collection.

He begged to know the designer's name but Margot left before he could say anymore, the hefty sum of francs in her purse enough for everything she'd had in mind and more.

After a quick trip to the bank (at which point the manager had profusely apologised for upsetting her husband and agreed to her request to have her added as an account holder) to have Erik's fortune transferred to another out-of-country bank, Margot had turned to her next item of business.

An item which, regrettably involved Henri Mercier.

Almost five years ago, when the Duke of Westenshire's daughter had gotten drunk one night and slept with her uncle, Margot had been dragged down here, to the backstreets of southern Paris, as a way of keeping her silent about the whole affair.

Mercier was a private businessman but for all Margot cared he was a thief, an extortionist and a murderer. It had not escaped her, the irony that Erik was many of those things as well but Margot could simply not bring herself to think well of Monsieur Mercier.

Uncle Franck had come to him with a problem and in his mysterious, no doubt illegal ways, Mercier had made such a problem disappear. A week after the Duke threatened to have Uncle Franck extradited to England to be punished, his daughter was exposed as having had sordid affair with one of her father's stablemen and regardless of whether the story were true, she was shipped off elsewhere on the Continent, her reputation in ruin.

When she'd found out, Margot had been wary of what her Uncle had promised Mercier for such a favour and found out, a year later when Uncle Franck allowed two men to hide a stash of stolen antiquities in their apartments. The police called round three days after they left and Uncle Franck barely escaped arrest, though she believed that seeing his niece with him was a main part of why the policemen left them alone. "_He wouldn't put his niece in harm's way_," they'd muttered to each other naively. "_It must not be him._"

She knew others were not so lucky.

That was the way Henri Mercier worked, by collecting on debts owed to him, to make more money and favours for himself. She despised having to speak to him again, especially after the last time but it was a necessary evil for what she had in mind.

Keeping her head low, Margot entered a nearby building, the man guarding the foyer raising his eyebrows as she walked through the door. "The nunnery is down the street, love." He said in badly accented French.

Margot took a deep breath. "I wish to speak with Henri Mercier."

"No one here by that name." he replied, casually.

"I wish to make a deal."

The man eyed her up and down before shrugging and returning to his newspaper. "Oh well," he mumbled, pointing to the door down the corridor on her left. "Suppose the boss could use a favour from a pretty little thing like you."

As she knocked on the door to Henri Mercier's office, Margot silently disagreed. She had enough francs to pay him off; she refused to grant him a favour of her. Who knows what he may ask in the future.

"_Entrez-vous._" A voice inside greeted as the door swung open for her. The man behind the desk had not changed in the five years she had known him. Still short but powerfully built, still baring a full head of reddish blonde hair, still staring at her with such piercing, cold dark eyes, Mercier seemed to recognise her at once.

"Ah," he sighed. "The lovely Mademoiselle Ferrand. How is your uncle? Well I hope?" behind his question was a burning curiosity to discover why she was there.

Margot tried to control her shivers. "Monsieur Mercier, thank you for seeing me." In spite of her fear, her manners prevailed. "He is fine thank you for asking."

"_Au contraire, _I thought he believed you to be dead." Mercier said, smoothly. She froze slightly though her instincts told her he did not yet know about Erik. "I keep up to date on all my clients, Mademoiselle."

"A necessary deception, Monsieur." She whispered, her body feeling faint. She had noticed the man sharpening his knife in the corner of Mercier's office which was decorated lavishly.

"I would hope such deception would never be necessary, Mademoiselle." he smiled, coldly. "Honesty is always best, _non_?"

Margot tried her best to recover herself. "I would like to speak to you concerning a certain favour you once did for my Uncle. And you know as well as I, Monsieur, that my Uncle does not deal with _honest _men."

Mercier studied her carefully before flicking his hand at the man in the corner. "Leave us." Though she was sure he would not help her, being left alone with Mercier was a terrifying thought. As the man shut the door behind him, Mercier stood from his desk. "And what may I ask, could I possibly help you with?"

Margot clenched her hands into fists as she recited the story he would take the most easily. "M-my sweetheart and I- we wish to be married. But Uncle will never allow it. I had to falsify my death Monsieur, to escape with him. It is my dearest wish to escape Paris with him."

"And why would you come here, Mademoiselle Ferrand?" Mercier asked, raising one eyebrow with indifference. "I could call upon you Uncle and have him brought here immediately. I have known him longer than I have known you."

Margot could see he was uninterested in her proposal. "I need passage out of Paris. Uncle will have surely asked his friends around Paris to keep an eye out for my love. We must leave right away."

"How is this any of my concern?"

"I have no influence you would find interesting." She blurted out, bluntly. "I will be no use to you later in the future but I have money enough to let us escape. You are a dangerous man, Monsieur Mercier, I know you could help us."

"What kind of fiancée allows such a sweet flower to walk into dangerous men's offices alone?" he asked, slowly.

Margot felt a thrill of fear and tried to remember that she was doing this for Erik, to allow him the life she had always wanted for him, to repay him for keeping her safe and a friend all these years. "One who does not know what I am doing." She admitted, quietly. "Monsieur, how much would it cost for a safe, undetected passage out of France?"

Mercier's smile terrified her. "What allowance have you to spend Mademoiselle?"

* * *

Hours later, when Margot returned to the _Hotel du Mars, _Erik greeted her with the first and tightest hug he had ever initiated. "Margot, where have you been? It is nearly midnight!" he ranted. "Despite your anger with me, I would not have you injure yourself due to stupidity. You _know _what happens to women who walk the streets this late."

Margot revelled in the feeling of his arms around her, completely forgetting her fears and anger at his doubt. When he clutched her to him like this, she could pretend he loved her in return, that somehow Christine had been erased from his thoughts.

"I was bartering our escape," she whispered as Erik pulled away and studied her all over.

He frowned, the white bandage mask back in place with an eyehole to allow him his vision. "Escape? Margot what did you do?"

Margot sat down on the chaise lounge and explained how she had exchanged Christine's ring for money at one of the jewellers, paying special attention to how each of them had marvelled at the detail. Though she did not use the former soprano's name, Margot could still sense him tense at the mention of her ring. Still he did not disagree with her actions, until she mentioned Mercier.

"You silly girl," he muttered, angrily. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that Mercier is a clever and influential man," Margot argued. Without his arms around her, her anger at their earlier fight was returning with a vengeance.

"You've taken leave of your senses, obviously." Erik snarled. "I've heard of such men, Margot and they could have killed you on the spot or worse!"

The pale brunette tried desperately not to remember how Mercier had tried to coerce her into favours in bed before accepting money instead. _"You seem so innocent, Mademoiselle,_" he'd chuckled, brushing the hair from her cheek. _"You fiancé is a lucky man to discover such innocences, though I wonder if you'd part with them earlier to secure his future?_"

"But they didn't." Margot cut in, icily. "Instead of wallowing around our room all day, I've secured our passage to Geneva and then away from there. I've done nothing but try to help you, try to prove my love for you and you scorn me for it!"

"Such words," he replied. "It sickens me to hear you say those words. To hear what I've done to you, I am wrecked with guilt." Erik spoke, his voice flat and terrifying. Margot felt bile swell in her throat. It _sickened _him. Her feelings _sickened _him.

This had nothing to do with Erik's conscience or his supposed manipulation. Her feelings _sickened _him. He did not return her emotions. He still longed for Christine and her talent. She was nothing more than a friend to him. She did not stir even the faintest of attractions for him.

Margot could not bear to speak more with him and so she left the lounge and entered the adjoining bedroom, the door slamming behind her with finality as she realised Erik could never adore her the way she cherished him.

* * *

The following evening, having procured bags to pack their sparse supplies, including their washed clothes, food that would keep for the trip, the remaining francs from Christine's engagement ring (Erik's fortune had already been transferred to another bank in Switzerland), Erik and Margot bid Paris farewell as they climbed aboard a train leaving to Geneva at midnight.

Mercier's arrangements had been swift and comprehensive at least. He'd arranged for the train to pause just after leaving the station and for a man and carriage to escort the pair to the point where they could board easily. Erik had donned his mask of bandages and Margot hid her face in her scarf while they climbed into one of the train's empty first class carriages.

Margot had paid for the extra privacy and so when the train picked up pace again, no one, not even the attendants, bothered the couple who had not spoken of anything but business since their last argument.

The bed in first class, was thankfully a pair of beds pushed together and so Margot had silently pulled them apart and slept restlessly through the night as she considered Erik pacing the carriage with her.

When she awoke, breakfast had been served by a porter who owed Mercier a small commitment and Erik was moodily staring into the rich food. Margot had been tossing and turning through the night, her heart aching as she considered what she must do. She would rather have Erik as a friend than as nothing and so she grabbed one of the complimentary night robes from the carriage closet and sat with him at the mahogany dining table.

"Erik?" she murmured and he turned to her, blankly. His eyes still flickered with uncertainty and undisguised despise for himself. "I would have us talk about that night."

"Margot-" he begun to disagree but she continued quickly.

"I wish to apologise." Margot said, quietly. "It was wrong of me to say those things. I know how you feel about Chr- _her. _And I would not want our friendship to suffer because of it. Let us forget it, Erik, _please_," she begged. "I don't want to lose your friendship."

Erik stared at her for a long moment before he nodded. Margot forced a smile to her face. "Good," she said, with false cheer as her heart broke. "Then let's prepare for our arrival, shall we? Mercier granted me a carriage ride to a smaller village outside of the city."

"It would seem we are to make a new place for ourselves then?" he asked, curiously.

"It's a small place," Margot added, quickly. "It's actually very close to the French border. It's called Favreau."

"Then I suppose I will call it home." Erik mused.

Margot smile, weakly. "I suppose we shall."

* * *

The town of Favreau was much smaller than Mercier had described but she found it to be charming rather than stifling. While she had grown up in a big city such as Paris, Margot had always been surrounded by a close group of people and as the carriage, which had been chartered to take them to Favreau without delay, began to depart the Annecy station, Margot felt a sense of peace she had not felt since Erik had told her Christine's voice was ready.

Erik still wore his makeshift mask but it was beginning to show signs of wear. The white linen had evident grime and dirt in places from the hard days of travel. They had been lucky they had little to carry with them since compartments on the train from Paris to Geneva to Annecy were tight. They'd dismounted along the way and the carriage trip had been rough over the rolling hills and country terrain.

Margot knew he was tense with worry and mistrust over their destination but she dared not risk reminding him of her feelings by taking his hand. Instead she merely chatted with the driver about Favreau.

"It's a small place, Madame," he reminded her as they came close to where the small town began. "Very comfortable."

"Mademoiselle, if you please." She corrected gently. She had decided to make Erik her brother rather than her husband for their story. It was clear that pretending to have a relationship with her would make him incredibly uncomfortable. "Do you know of any lodgings we might find?" it was the one thing Mercier had been unable to provide.

The driver looked thoughtful before pointing out a small cottage a little distance away from the centre of the village. "I know that the family that used to live there has moved north and their home has been left abandoned. I'm sure the town council would allow you to have it if you paid a fee."

Keeping this in mind, Margot directed the man to take her directly to the town hall and obediently, they arrived within the hour at the modest but well maintained hall. Margot made her way inside and asked to speak with someone regarding the old Thierry Cottage, while Erik studied the world through the curtained windows of the carriage.

It seemed quiet, he noted, but there was a fair amount of people wandering the cobbled streets, a small group of children playing tag in the main square. They shrieked with laughter while their parents went around their daily business. Erik wondered how they would feel if they knew a murderer with half a face lay in their midst.

He watched Margot exit the carriage for the _mairie _and felt a slight wave of disgust with himself. Though they had agreed to forget her confession, it still rang in Erik's head. Not only was Margot having to silence what she thought she felt but she was still taking care of him despite it. The woman had singlehandedly gotten them out of Paris, at risk to her own life and virtue, and Erik felt the rumblings of his brutalised ego complaining for it.

_It's not right, _he mused as Margot exited the building, her purse with the last of the francs inside gone. He knew there was another still in her bags containing a small withdrawal from the bank in Paris but as he watched her speak with the head of town calmly, Erik felt indignation towards himself. _She's a woman, _he thought, frowning. _I should be doing better to take care of her. She should not have to take care of a monster such as myself in the first place but I should at least lighten the load for her._

Taking a deep breath, Erik opened the door to the carriage before he could stop himself and stood tall over the head of council beside Margot who could not have looked more surprised. "Erik, what-?" she began but the other man cut in.

"You must be the Mademoiselle's brother," he greeted, his eyes following the man's bandages curiously. "I must express my apologies for your accident but I am glad to welcome you to our small town."

Quickly deducing that Margot had lied about his face, Erik merely nodded, politely. "Thankyou sir."

"The councilman has allowed us to purchase the cottage, Erik," Margot quickly chimed in, confused as to why he had left the carriage in the first place. "Isn't that wonderful news?"

"I've heard the late family has left all the furnishings in place," the councilman added, smiling brightly at Margot. Erik felt his hands clench as he took in the appreciative stare of the man before him. "Should you need anything more-"

"I'm sure I can fill what is missing, monsieur, thank you." Erik stated, coolly. The more he spoke to the man, the more he wondered how Margot's story could feel like a mask as much as the bandages across his face.

"Erik is a carpenter, monsieur." Margot improvised, looking more and more frazzled as the conversation continued.

"Well should you be looking for work, there is a man, Le Pont, in town who needs an apprentice carpenter." The councilman advised, correctly taking in the warning tone of Erik's voice, though misunderstanding it for one of brotherly affection.

"Thank you so much Monsieur Armand." Margot replied, politely. "But my brother and I are tired from our journey, we should see to our new abode."

The man apologised for keeping them and as they made their way back to the carriage, the driver politely having offered to take them to their new home before staying at the inn and making his way onward to Annecy in the south, Margot murmured to him, concerned. "Are you alright? I hadn't expected you to be keen on showing your face around town like that."

Conscious of the curious gazes still on him and the way the councilman was now chatting to another man, rapidly, Erik waited until they had entered the carriage to reply. "It has come to my attention that if you should care for me, I should be reciprocal."

"It is no bother to me," Margot replied, immediately.

"But it does bother me." Erik confessed as the cottage came into view. The town was really quite small and they were there within five minutes. "No more of this, Margot. I'm demanding an end to it."

Right before the driver helped them open the door and put their sparse luggage inside the little house, Margot bit her lip. "As the Phantom of the Opera or as a friend?" she asked quietly.

As she thanked the driver and began to enter the cottage, Erik's ventriloquy echoed around her ears. "What is a phantom without an opera house?" he laughed, bitterly and tiredly.

While they both began to inspect the house, Erik immediately allowing her the larger bedroom while he took the smaller one, meant for a pair of children, Margot could not help herself. "So much more than he could ever be hidden below its depths." She whispered in reply. And despite the fact that he did not pause in his movements, she was sure he still heard.

* * *

**A/N: I think it's a little shorter this time, sorry.**

**What's your favourite (or least favourite) line, in this chapter or any others?**


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**A/N: I am so sorry guys, I've been moving house and my computer broke in the process. :(  
As a reward, the next few chapters are just going to be uploaded every week with or without reviews though I would love some!**

**So here are Margot and Erik in Favreau and I hope you enjoy it. I like this one... Erik's slowly coming round.**

**Thankyou so much though, for everyone who reviews or favourites this little piece. I hope you enjoy the rest of it.**

**Love,**

**Shy**

* * *

_CHAPTER FIFTEEN_

* * *

_The cottage in Favreau was quaint but fit for the pair of us. I managed to coerce Erik into the larger bedroom after a few weeks of him complaining of the cramped conditions in the children's room. I know you did not see it solnyshka, but Erik is a logical creature when it does not concern the passions of his art._

_Being smaller, I had no problem in the double bed left from the Thierry's. As a thank you, Erik carved the headboard with leftover materials found in the gardens- apparently M. Thierry had been a hobby builder. Every night I went to sleep with stars and swans above me, dancing behind my eyelids._

_I had decided upon a small town thinking that it would be easier to hide from your Viscount in a place too tiny to see on a map, while also making sure that we were not living somewhere so primitive it hardly had pen and paper. What I also found was that the small amount of people meant that Erik's bandage-mask was gossiped over and then soon became familiar. It was a welcome benefit, though in the beginning, Erik rarely left the house._

_He hated to make me pick things up for us both but eventually grew used to the meals I made and the materials I bartered for using the last of our money. Erik's fortune was so large that we could hardly move it to Favreau- no, it was kept in Geneva and if either of us wanted to make a withdrawal, we had to travel nearly two days to reach it by carriage alone._

_Therefore, I decided I would have to work in town and make money for ourselves that way. Erik, of course, did not like the idea of the woman supporting the household and one day, months after that night in the catacombs, I discovered that he had done something about it._

* * *

Spring, 1871  
_Dovin's Dressmakers  
Favreau, Switzerland_

* * *

"I must ask, Mademoiselle Pierre, where did you learn?" the elderly Mme Dovina proclaimed, studying the work. Margot smiled, gently. The old woman reminded her dreadfully of Madame Tenau in Paris and despite their working relationship, the brunette had always had a soft spot for the busy costume seamstress.

"Margot, please Madame. Call me Margot." She said, evading the question. It would hardly do to tell her she had learnt under the best seamstresses and tailors in one of the most famous opera houses in the world.

"Of course, dear." Dovina replied, cheerfully. She was a stout woman, her skin wrinkled in laughter lines around her eyes but still very quick herself. Having been quickly hired upon discovering her talents with a needle, Margot considered how different the garments she worked on now were.

Trousers for farmers, blouses for housewives, dresses for little girls, shoes and caps for sons, she laughed quietly to herself. Quite a change from the diva's gowns and frivolous costumes for the stage. Though she missed the creativity, Margot enjoyed using her talents to provide for herself.

It had been nearly four months since they had left Paris and in that time, Margot had kept a steady job which allowed her to purchase both the raw materials and tools to help Erik turn Thierry cottage into a space they could properly live in. They were not farmers, either of them, nor bakers nor butchers but Margot used the short walking distance to town to her advantage and secured a job with Mme Dovina who was looking for a partner at her dress shop.

"Even towns like this one need clothes!" Dovina often proclaimed. She had a friend in Annecy who carted her cloth up to Favreau every month for some Swiss francs.

Occasionally they'd have some of the wealthier families pay for gowns for dances and the like, Mme Dovina also informed Margot. And she'd sometimes do touch ups with the poorer families' clothes for a reduced price.

The best part of working with the old dressmaker was that Dovina's family had immigrated to the West long ago, from a tiny village on the edges of the Russian empire where they had been persecuted by the Tsarist autocracy.

It meant that when Margot cursed or mumbled in her mother's native tongue, Dovina could snap back a reply in a way Margot had never encountered. It was a comfort, especially since she was in a foreign place for the first time in her life.

"But really child, where did you come from?" Dovina persisted, curiously. That was the only consequence of a small town: the curiosity.

Margot sighed, having finished the hemming of the baker's trousers long ago and simply trying to avoid the conversation. "My mother taught me." She replied, vaguely. It was partly true: Albina Ferrand had taught her but it had mostly been Mme Tenau.

A hand on her shoulder startled her from her memories of pricked fingers and gentle admonishment. Dovina's kind eyes studied her, sadly. "I know a girl with a past when I see one. You needn't tell me child, nor should you, about you, your mother or even your brother."

Margot's brain fizzled, trying to come up with a story but she was tired of lying. She could pretend it was story telling all she liked but in the end, she felt like a liar and a fraud. "M-my brother had an accident-"

Dovina quietened her again, right as the baker came for his mended trousers. "Dear girl, your brother is no ordinary victim of circumstance."

No, Margot thought as Dovina went to greet him. No he is hardly that.

* * *

Sometime later, Dovina noticed the growling of Margot's stomach and paused what she was doing, she was so surprised. "What have you been eating girl?" she exclaimed. "Or rather what have you not?"

Margot blushed. "Things have been tight lately."

Erik and she had been working around a strict division of food but Margot simply couldn't keep up with feeding the pair of them. The last of their perishables from Paris had gone yesterday so Margot had skipped breakfast every other day to make the remaining food stretch longer.

Mme Dovina tutted, briskly and handed her a fixed apron which had previously sported a long rip down one side. "Take this to the grocer and tell him to feed you as payment." She ordered. "I'll not have your rumblings disturbing my shop any longer."

Margot protested but Dovina had already made up her mind so the former costume designer left the dress shop with the apron in tow. Margot stepped out onto the relatively busy street, for a second remembering the bustle of Paris before she began the walk toward the grocers.

Favreau had seemed tiny when they'd first arrived but it was more substantial than Margot had given credit. The main street was filled with shops and from there, the houses began to develop and then the farms. There were actually a few manors somewhere in between, countryside homes for wealthy men and nobility.

On an errand for Mme Dovina, Margot had passed one and found herself remembering the Ferrand manor in Versailles, which must now lie in ruins after nearly fifteen years of abandonment. Though perhaps the servants checked it every now and then, Margot hoped, idly as she passed the butchers and then the town's livery.

"Margot!" one of the boys, Mme Dovina's grandson, playing tag in the street cried upon seeing her. The other children waved frantically as she went passed and she found herself waving back, smiling.

Since Alec Dovin had come to visit his grandmother and needed to be kept from touching the more expensive materials, Margot had recited one of her earliest stories, the one with Anna and the Prince of India and the pirates, which had pleased the petits ballet corps so well.

She'd garnered somewhat of a reputation since then though she did not have the same energy to tell stories like she used to. It was something that she did every now and then, rather than the job she'd made out of it at the Populaire.

"I see your fans have found you." said a laughing voice and Margot turned to see Mme Dovina's eldest grandson Dmitri chuckling as he speared hay into the stalls of one of the farm owner's horses. The keeper of the town's stables, Dmitri had what Margot found to be the unlucky job of caring for the carriages and horses of visitors in town, though he admitted he enjoyed the work.

"Fans?" Margot echoed, rolling her eyes. "What an exaggeration."

Dmitri laughed. "You'd be surprised. Last Sunday all he could talk about was the girl in grandmother's shop with the stories."

The girl with the stories, Margot thought somewhat sadly. Nostalgia filled her as she considered the title which had been hers since she was seven and had been making excuses to Madame Giry to let her stay at the Populaire.

Instead, she put on a smile and held up the apron. "I'd better be off, the grocer's left one of his measuring weights in the pocket." She excused herself. She was just about to turn cross the street when Dmitri halted her.

"Margot, wait." He called, catching up to her quickly. "Have you heard of the party in town?"

"A party? No, your grandmother hasn't mentioned it."

"It's two months from today, in the centre of town. The farm owners and richmen put it on and invite most of the town." He explained.

Margot instantly compared such a description to the Masquerade Balls at the Populaire and the worker party they put on behind the scenes. She wondered which one Favreau's dance would favour. "It sounds lovely."

Dmitri scuffed the cobbled path with his foot. "I'd like to know if you'd save me a dance then," he asked, boldly.

Margot blushed, suddenly taking in the inch or so of height Dmitri had on her, the freckled skin and pale blue eyes. She'd invited Mme Dovina around for dinner one evening a while ago but with sensitivity to Erik, Margot had tried not to associate herself too much in Favreau society. She hadn't wanted to leave him alone, knowing she was the only friend he had left and taking the responsibility very seriously.

But Dmitri was such a sweet man, only three or so years older than her and Margot was beginning to feel restless staying at home every night so before she could stop herself- "I'd be honoured Monsieur Dovin."

Dmitri broke out into a wide smile that made him look far more dashing than she'd ever considered him to be. "Wonderful. I'll see you around then, Margot Pierre."

And with that he took off back to the livery, leaving Margot terribly confused and rather flattered.

* * *

She was coming back from the grocer (who had allowed her to pick as much as she liked for bringing back his apron and weight) when she saw them. Her basket was filled with enough fruit and vegetables to last them a few days which she knew she could stretch into a week or so if she was careful and continued trying to plant the seeds in the garden.

So focused on her inventory, Margot very nearly passed the carpenters without looking up but when she did, what she saw surprised her.

The carpenter's workshop, much like the blacksmith's, stood open for most to see and inquire about. The carpenter of Favreau was talented, not only because of his beautifully manufactured furnishings but because he did all of it without his sight. M. Phillipe Laurent Le Pont was apparently blinder than a bat but very impressive nonetheless because he had no one to help him with any of his work.

Which was why seeing Erik beside him, piecing together a large wooden table, was such a shocking sight.

"Erik?" Margot called, uncertainly. Both men's heads snapped toward her at the sound and M. Le Pont's brow crinkled, his pale blue eyes staring just to her left.

"Is that your sister boy?" he barked.

Margot saw Erik's jaw tighten at being called a 'boy' but he replied nonetheless. "Yes it is. Margot, this is Monsieur Le Pont."

"His new boss," the old man continued, cheerfully. He heaved to his feet and moved toward her slowly with the aid of his cane. "What a pleasure to meet such a lovely creature."

Margot was about to ask how he could possibly say such a thing without his eyesight when she caught Erik rolling his eyes in a casual manner she'd never seen before. In fact, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and vest hanging open, unbuttoned, Erik seemed far more casual than she'd seen him in years. "It's lovely to meet you as well Monsieur." She greeted, startled as she took the hand he offered.

"Please call me Philippe." The old man's head suddenly cracked toward Erik. "What are standing there ogling for, get a move on boy!"

Erik's fists tightened but he sanded down the table top slowly and carefully.

Having seen Erik making such pieces before, Margot knew he was taking special attention with the large table. "It's been commissioned by Monsieur Timbale and his wife for their home." Philippe suddenly explained, as if sensing her gaze.

"It's beautiful." she said, honestly as she took in the carved band of nymphs and goddesses. She would have known Erik's work a mile away on any continent.

Philippe let out a bark of gruff laughter. "Your brother's got some sense in his head when it comes to detail, I suppose."

"He's very talented," Margot replied, her voice edging toward defensive. "But what are you doing here?" her question was directed toward her 'brother' who wore a fresh mask of bandages across the right side of his face.

"Monsieur Le Pont supposes I can work with his son and himself." Erik told her shortly. She tried to catch his eyes but he would have none of it. As Philippe busied himself with chasing out a little boy who was trying to pinch the wood shavings off the ground without making noise, she neared Erik, confused.

"But why are you here?" she asked.

"Because it was time." Erik replied, simply. "Besides, the _vieillard_ cannot see my face- he treats me as he does everyone else."

"Who are you calling old?" Philippe snapped, whacking his cane to the ground. "I am in the prime of my youth you _petit gosse_!"

Erik gritted his teeth. "He also cannot understand what I mean when I say am a grown man."

"Next to him," called a man from the workshop door who had Philippe's nose and curly hair. "Everyone's a boy."

Philippe said some very unflattering things to the man who introduced himself as Philippe's son. "Claude Le Pont." He greeted, nodding toward Erik who seemed on edge around the other man.

"I should be off," Margot said, uneasy with the tension radiating from Erik. "Will I meet you back at the house?"

"If I don't keep him to sweep out the floors tonight!" Philippe roared, running his hand over the table. "What are these birrs here for, boy? Fix them!"

Erik sent Margot a look that said he was fine if not frustrated and she left soon after, bidding adieu to Philippe and his son as she went.

* * *

Despite his complaining, Philippe did enjoy Erik's company and his skill and paid him as such. Within weeks, Erik's work had become a coveted part of town gossip. His talent in fashioning art out of furniture was particularly impressive to the richer families in town who began to commission _Le Pont & Fils Charpentiers_ to make them something.

With the two incomes, Margot no longer worried about food and she ceased coming to work hungry. Mme Dovina was pleased with the young pair's progress in town, though she continually told Margot she was slishkom toshchaya and needed to eat more.

She invited Margot to her home for dinner one evening with her family and Margot hesitated, both somewhat flattered at having been invited and conflicted over seeing Erik and Dmitri in the same room. She'd yet to tell Erik about Dmitri's dance at the party the week after but she was concerned as to how he would feel about it. Though not for the reasons one might think.

Though they'd chosen to forget the whole incident in the catacombs, Margot knew the former Phantom had done no such thing. He'll probably be very glad to see me with someone else, she fretted. He'll see it as me moving on with my feelings.

Eying the expectant look on Mme Dovina's face, Margot caved in and agreed, deciding that if Erik would have no problem with Dmitri, who had been complimenting her every time he saw her since the day he'd invited her to the dance, then she should have no issue either.

* * *

Margot's calculations may have been slightly off however. As it happened, Erik did have a problem with Dmitri and he was not glad to see him flirt and chat with Margot so care freely.

At dinner, as the Dovin family, composed of matriarch Madame Dovina, her four children, their spouses and nine grandchildren, prepared a wonderful meal for the Pierres, Erik studied them all carefully, especially the eldest grandson, Dmitri Dovin.

All of them were simple people who had lived in Favreau for most of their lives and Margot got on well with them, rambling off things in Russian on occasion to Madame Dovina, much to the displeasure and amusement of her children.

"Mama, how are we going to stop you teasing us if you won't let us know what you're saying?" the only daughter Katarina, complained, wiping after her newborn, Gerry.

"Since when could you ever stop me from teasing you, darling?" Madame Dovina replied in fluent Russian with laughter in her eyes.

Dmitri, who was the only grandchild who'd learned any part of the language, snickered, picking up on his grandmother's tone. His father Lenka smacked him upside the head as payback for laughing at the joke none of them understood.

He complained loudly as Margot giggled. "You poor thing," she crooned teasingly in the other language. Erik didn't like the way Dmitri's mouth smiled when she listened to him.

"You baby them too much and they will run you ragged!" Madame Dovina declared as one of her granddaughters came to sit on her lap.

Margot shared a glance with Erik who both hid smiles at the memory of a conversation much like this one about the spoiled ballet rats at the Populaire.

Erik had said little to the family itself, preferring to concentrate on speaking with Margot and occasionally another of Madame Dovina's grandsons Misha, who at ten, was more curious than frightened. He tag teamed with his brother, Alec, who begged Margot for a story some time in the next week.

The small recognition with his French companion squashed a little of his anxiety back, the small acknowledgement that they were both from someplace very different from here. Much of his time in Favreau was concerned with hiding and attempting to adjust to the simple lifestyle in the country.

He'd forsaken his music since the night of Don Juan Triumphant but gradually, his restlessness for artistic pursuits had been channelled into his sculpting and work with the Le Pont family in town. He was beginning to feel like he could take care of Margot as he once had, his pieces selling for much more than he'd been expecting. Margot had always told him he should sell his works but a part of him had always doubted their worth, despite his confidence.

Now, however, he could quite clearly say his pieces were worth what people paid for them though his new confidence in providing for the pair was now being undermined by Madame Dovina's grandson.

"It is late Madame," Margot interrupted after nearly an hour post-dinner had passed. "We should be leaving."

Madame Dovina offered Lenka to escort the pair outside while the rest of her children packed up their dinner and children, but Dmitri volunteered before he could even stand. Amused at his son's enthusiasm, Lenka and his brothers helped their mother pack away her home, under the threat of a wooden spoon.

Dmitri idled around waiting for Erik to step out and give him a moment alone with Margot but Erik played oblivious and stood waiting for him to bid them farewell.

But of course, the boy (Erik relished the thought that the man in front of him was younger than him, though some part of him feared it would only appear attractive to Margot) had more bravery than he'd first imagined.

"Margot, might I call on you sometime before the dance?" he asked, bluntly with none of the smoothness Erik was used to seeing in Parisian men.

Surely she can't find that remotely charming, Erik thought, unimpressed.  
But apparently, as Margot nervously agreed to taking a walk around town before the dance on the coming Wednesday night, she had found it charming enough.

Kissing her politely on the hand and giving a small nod to Erik, Dmitri watched as the pair made their way back to the cottage.

Erik walked without speaking beside Margot, though he knew she was tensed with his silence. In all honesty, he was unsure as to how to proceed with the recent events and he was himself uncomfortable with the feelings they conjured inside him.

He felt an unnerving sense of irritation with Madame Dovina's grandson; though during dinner Erik had spoken on occasion to Lenka, Dmitri's father, calling him Lenka's son made him seem like a far more likely candidate for Margot's affections, in terms of age and propriety. And there was the crux of the matter- a candidate for Margot's affections.

He attempted logic with minimal success as they neared the cottage: Margot was the last thing he had left in the world; it was only natural that he should see Dovin as a competitor.

And yet Erik now had a job (which nearly made him laugh some days: the Phantom of the Opera with an occupation? Ludicrous!) and a town in which he was not beaten and cursed, a mentor (begrudgingly, Erik had admitted that he could stand to learn from Philippe Le Pont which had made the old man burst with glee) and, dare he say it, a fresh start.

Should Margot have left tomorrow, he was sure that while he'd miss her company dearly, he would at least be capable of survival on his own.  
Erik tried again to piece it together: Margot had had bad experiences with men before.

He could still remember her screaming when that mongrel George Mondine had tried to do things no gentleman should ever consider and to Margot, a girl who had never offended him and most certainly hadn't deserved such treatment.

Mondine's fate had been painful but unfortunately quick and Erik supposed that he was still lying in one of the sewers of the Populaire's underground, as the heathen had been doing so for five years.

Margot had grown up too pretty and many of the more unsavoury characters at the Populaire had certainly taken notice. Erik's theory as to why he would be furious at Dovin's advances grew stronger as he considered the incident concerning Joseph Buquet who had targeted Margot for years.

But as he considered Dmitri's behaviour to her thus far, Erik knew Dovin wasn't capable of the crimes the opera workers had been. He recalled the bluntness of his manner and the kindness of his family, the respect in their eyes as they regarded their wives and mother. No, it was not in the Favreau-native's nature to commit such crimes against Margot should they progress in their relationship.

As Margot entered the house, Erik allowed himself a moment to study her, wondering how he should move forward with the irrational urges he was currently indulging. It was ridiculous anyway.

"Good night Erik," she murmured, rubbing her eyes as she went to her room.

"Good night cherie." Erik muttered back, beating back such urges. There is no hope for them, he told himself, bluntly. Margot has agreed and I would not take the choice from her. He had already done that to her: the choice of where she would live, where she would work, how she would survive, who she would befriend. Too many choices he had inadvertently sabotaged.

As he lay on his bed that night, studying the rafters above him, Erik considered his last urge as Margot had slipped into her rooms. It was not reasonable but the temptation remained nonetheless: the silent but aching need to brush the hair away from her face so as to be the last thing she touched before she slept rather than Dmitri's lips on the back of her hand.

* * *

**Translations**:

_vieillard- _French meaning "old man"

_petit gosse - _French meaning "little brat"

_Le Pont & Fils. Charpentiers - _French meaning Le Pont and Sons. Carpenters.

* * *

**Hope you liked it! If you did, please, please, please review!**

**Shy.**


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**A/N: I bow before the wonder of my readers!**

**Thanks for all the messages guys, I hope you enjoy this one. Last paragraph is my favourite.**

**Shy.**

* * *

_CHAPTER SIXTEEN_

* * *

_The evening of the Favreau Town Dance, the weather was beautiful. It was mid-summer and I'd spent much of my free time leading up to the dance finishing the added touches of my dress. You see I'd been using a few pre-made dresses that I'd bought from Mme Dovina and the only fitted gown I had was the one I wore down to the sewers that night. I used it, ragged though it was, as a template for the gown I intended to wear dancing and as you well know Christine, it takes a lot of time to make a fully fitted dress from scratch for most people though with two professional seamstresses, it took less time than expected._

_I confess, I was bursting with creativity when I sketched it out but as Erik pointed out, I was bound to cause stares if I showed up in something worth the Populaire's Masked Ball. Knowing the truth as I now do, I think part of the reason was so that Dmitri Dovin didn't 'marvel' at me as Erik often claims he did._

_It was beautiful though, solnyshka. It was the kind of dress that makes you feel bold and lovely. I was still thinking of the Masquerade when I made it but I tried to tone down the flair a little. Instead of satin, it was dyed cloth and instead of jewels it had delicate white embroidery. It had a full crimson skirt and bodice and the colour was spectacular. The sleeves were fitted to my elbow- they and the sweetheart neckline were edged in a thin simple white lace I was given by Madame Dovina when she saw my design. _

_When I dressed for the night, I could not help but remember the last time I'd dressed so beautifully, with you and Meg giggling in the background. I kept hearing your laughter and chatter, Christine, in my head. I pretended I was back with you both in the Populaire, preparing for some occasion…_

* * *

Summer, 1871  
_Pierre Cottage  
Favreau, Switzerland_

* * *

Erik watched as Margot turned once again, staring regretfully at the bed behind her. The children's room had a small dresser and hand mirror when they'd moved in but he'd moved in the vanity from the master bedroom as quickly as he could.

It was in this moderately sized mirror that Margot now pinned curls atop her head, leaving her neck bare. She had borrowed a bright red lipstick and a small amount of kohl from Mme Dovina, who assured her they had never been used. A gift from her late husband, Dovina claimed, laughing, who was colour blind and couldn't see how hideous the colour looked on her.

The colour, which Erik agreed, would've looked garish on most women, was perfect with Margot's ivory complexion and her grey eyes seemed bluer with the kohl lining the eyelashes. Coupled with the dress and her darkened hair and Margot was a picture of loveliness.

If only the sad frown marring her features would leave.

"_Cherie?_" he asked in a low tone and she was startled out of her nostalgia.

"Erik, for heaven's sakes, _make noise _when you walk!" she snapped, gasping.

Erik smirked as he sat on the bed she'd been staring at. "How are you this evening _cherie?_" he asked, carefully. Margot had been highly strung on the days leading up to the dance and he was curious to know what had caught her so thoroughly. _Not that Dovin boy, surely?_

Disregarding his question, Margot instead studied his face or more specifically the right side of his face. "You're wearing your mask again." She pointed out the obvious. "How does it feel?"

Erik let his hands trace the lacquered leather which now covered his deformity in a stiff mask. "Different." He confessed, trying his best to be honest. "Lighter."

He meant both figuratively and literally. Margot had procured the stiff leather off the trader Mme Dovina paid and the lacquer had come from Erik's workshop in town. He'd fashioned it using the same tools he used for upholstery and it appeared as it once had, though different somehow.

As opposed to the porcelain mask he'd once worn, the leather felt much lighter but it was now also instilled with the knowledge that people knew he was scarred behind it and did not care.

Margot smiled, beautifully. "That's wonderful."

Erik eyed her carefully before gesturing to the bed. "Is there something especially interesting about the bed, Margot?" he asked, smirking as she blushed.

"I-I keep hearing them giggling behind me." She confessed.

"Who?"

"Meg and Christine." Margot responded, carefully.

Erik flinched only the smallest bit at the sound of her name, though not out of heartache but regret and remorse for what he had done.

"I imagine them in the mirror," Margot added, clipping the simple silver clip-earrings Dmitri had given her, as a loan from his grandmother. He'd come all the way to the house last Sunday to give it to her and stayed for nearly half an hour, the little _gosse_ and Erik had remained silent while Margot thanked him kindly.

Turning back to the matter at hand, Erik felt his face become sterner as he considered Margot's words. Though she was friends with Mme Dovina and Dmitri and even a few people in town, Margot did not have the same sisterhood she once had at the Populaire. He felt angry with himself for ripping it away from her and his feelings towards her seemed that much more improper.

They had been in Favreau for nearly six months to the day and yet Margot still felt the loss of her younger sister figures acutely. She pinned the last lock of slightly curled hair up and behind her ear and smiled at her reflection, somewhat sadly. "There. How do I look?"

Erik leaned forward and slowly but purposefully tugged the curl from behind her ear until it dropped against her face. Though still a limp brown in sunlight, Erik was used to seeing it turn dark and rich in candlelight and with it brushing her cheek, the curl completed the picture.

"Perfect." He murmured, enjoying her blush. His eyes drifted down to her bare neck and he fingered the chain in his pocket wondering. "Though you're missing the necklaces of the Masquerade nobles." He teased.

Margot rolled her eyes, breaking the spell they'd been caught in. "You were right," she assured, carefully checking her kohl and brushing invisible flecks off her bodice. Her first design (which had been better fit for a diva than herself) included a garnet and black pearl pendant that Erik had immediately called irrational.

Margot had been upset for a few days, imagining times when her designs would've been met with excitement and pleasure. She'd been so filled with nostalgia that Erik had even offered to go to Geneva with her to buy such an item. After all, it was hardly expense that kept her from purchasing it, it was availability and context, not to mention practicality.

But Margot had refused the offer, saying that she'd let her imagination run away with her and that she was still adjusting to being a peasant in a small town, not a seamstress in a theatre.

"It was silly," Margot added, fixing her lipstick again. The colour made her lips look fuller and delightfully kissable. Erik half-wished she would take it off, if only so Madame Dovina's grandson wouldn't get any ideas. "I've grown used to it now, promise. The dress looks better without anything anyway."

Erik drew out the chain from his pocket. "What a shame," he mocked. "I was so hoping you'd suffer wearing something a little less extravagant than garnets and pearls."

Margot's eyebrows rose, shocked as she studied the thin wooden pendant, hanging on the end of the gold chain. It was made of red wood, a small carved bead which glimmered in the candlelight, the shape masterfully crafted into a rosebud. Despite the simpleness of the design, Margot could see the beauty in the lovely smooth red bead.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, allowing him to arrange the clasp around her neck.

"I thought you might like it." Erik said, for the first time feeling nervous. He had not considered the meaning behind the gift when he'd carved it, although now it seemed wrought with it. It had seemed so very natural to have made her such a present, though the emotions her pleased expression struck in him were not ones he was willing to indulge. Though frankly, at that moment, Erik could not stop himself and neither did he entirely want to.

Especially not with the way she looked tonight, not with the way her skin looked in red.

His only concern was that Dmitri might have similar thoughts.

Though unprepared to admit anything to himself let alone Margot, Erik felt the familiar sense of time being very much _not _on his side where emotions were concerned. Dmitri had already taken Margot out for a day in town on one of her free days and it reminded the mask man acutely of how it had felt to hear Christine arranging outings with her wretched Viscount.

The fact that he could now think her name was a testament to how far Erik had come. Instead of forbidding talk of her as he had once considered, he had instead refused to allow her name such power and, emboldened with his changing perception of Margot, Erik had gradually allowed his soul to mend until he could see how his lust, loneliness and longing had somehow transformed into a sick version of love.

Even now, he felt sore regret for having let things progress so far and a deep yearning to do better where Margot was concerned.

Margot smiled, looking almost teary at the gift. "Thank you Erik." She murmured, playing with the bead in the mirror. She stood and Erik took in the breathtaking sight of her in red, like she belonged in one of the fairy tales she often strung. "Shall we go?"

Erik offered her his arm, allowing himself a small sigh of relief when she took it. "We certainly shall."

* * *

Margot was breathless as she took yet another whirl around the dance floor with Theo the baker. His pregnant wife laughed as they spun past. She and her son were watching Theo twirl her continuously with expert grace, chuckling as even Margot found it hard to keep up. As it turned out, Theo's mother had been a trained dancer, and he'd been trained since birth to dance like this, much like Madame Giry had taught Meg, though Theo favoured his father as a baker.

Theo and his wife were just two of many people she'd had the pleasure of meeting tonight. While Dmitri had told her it was just a dance, she found she had an occasion to meet with people she'd seen but never spoken to. Along with Theo, Margot had made friends with the grocer, the butcher and the blacksmith's families. What's more, she needn't worry about carrying herself like a noble when she clearly wasn't and there was no La Carlotta seeking the limelight.

She'd attempted to pull Erik into conversation but he had been knee-deep in debate with Claude Le Pont (who he had surprisingly warmed up to) and seeing him so engaged with someone other than himself, Margot could not bear to break him away.

"Enough, enough!" Margot said, breathlessly. She'd fared better than most with Theo, considering her feet had grown up in an opera house with two ballerinas as friends but even she couldn't keep up with his twirling. "Mercy!"

Theo laughed uproariously, his thick arms moving with deceptive grace as he picked her up and twirled her off the floor at last. Gasping, Margot fell against the benches set up on either side of the dance floor. Yvette, Theo's wife, passed her a glass of lemonade, giggling. "I told you he was a monster when dancing." She said, smiling.

"I confess I did not believe you," Margot admitted, wiping the sweat from her brow. "I've no idea how you deal with it."

"Arsenic," Yvette said with a straight face. The women laughed, Yvette pausing to greet Dmitri over Margot's shoulder.

"Yvette," Dmitri bowed politely. "Margot, might I have the dance you promised me?"

Margot flushed, unsure if it was from the summer heat or nerves. "Of course. If you'll excuse me, Yvette, Theo." She replied, taking the arm offered to her.

Dmitri was hardly the dancer Theo was but he was better at it than she'd suspected. Of course, she moved perfectly with him, still much better. "The whole town is curious about you tonight." Dmitri told her, casually.

"I should hope not!" Margot teased. "They might not like what they find."

"What? A beautiful, sweet woman who looks absolutely divine tonight?" Dmitri replied, flirtatiously.

Margot blushed brightly to match her dress. "I knew that charm would make an appearance tonight." She tried to play it off, uncertain as to whether she was ready to flirt back or if she ever could. The only man she'd ever been interested in was in an unrequited love with someone else so learning to intrigue other men was a skill she'd never had to learn.

Dmitri looked serious as they moved among the crowd, looking dashing in his brown vest and black britches. "Honestly Margot, you are the loveliest woman here tonight." He told her. Margot appreciated the compliment, though she doubted it. She'd seen the councilman's wife, an exotic looking beauty and Katarina Dovina was looking particularly stunning in her pale green gown which complimented her lovely eyes and hair.

She was used to putting work into her appearance for certain events and having it pay off but she was far from the title of most lovely. She was simply more noticeable than usual was all. Somehow, the fact that Dmitri would announce such things to her made them seem cliché rather than sweet.

The dance finished quickly and Margot and Dmitri applauded the orchestra who began a waltz. Dmitri was about to ask her something (for the next dance she was sure) when Erik appeared beside the pair, his new mask surprising everyone in attendance.

Though Erik found the looks unwelcome, Margot knew what they were really thinking, having heard the butcher's daughter Charlotte with a friend by the refreshments, giggling over how handsome Erik was without the bandages, in his dark, sleek outfit. Margot knew none of the town had expected Erik to be so attractive since the bandages were all they could focus on. Without them, the lacquered leather instead, Erik cut a very handsome figure indeed.

"Margot?" he asked, careful not to show too much 'brotherly affection'.

Margot sent a thankful smile to Dmitri for the dance and allowed Erik to sweep her into the waltz. They kept a careful amount of space between one another, conscious of the eyes locked on the 'Pierre siblings', who cut quite the striking couple in their outfits. Not to mention the fact that having grown up in the Populaire, they danced perfectly in sync with the music.

"I wish they'd stop staring." Margot muttered when the music reached its crescendo.

"For once, I hope they won't." Erik did not appear to be speaking but then, his ventriloquy had always been a part of him.

"Why?" Margot whispered. "It's unnerving."

"You deserve some of the attention tonight Margot," he replied, enjoying having her in his arms for reasons he was unready to lay claim to.

"Just not from Dmitri correct?" she asked, shrewdly.

"Pardon?"

"You don't like him, admit it." Margot accused, quietly. "I've no idea why but you don't like him."

"I don't."

She hadn't expected him to confess it so quickly. "But why? What has he done?"

"I need a reason to dislike someone?" Erik laughed quietly trying to avoid the question as they twirled across the dance floor among the other couples who moved awkwardly compared to Margot and Erik.

"Generally speaking, _yes._"

"Since when," he murmured without moving his lips as the dance began to wind down. "Have either of us ever been general?" With no answer, Margot instead turned to applaud the tiny orchestra again, wordlessly. "My reasons are mine, _cherie_," he whispered as he escorted her to the refreshments. "Not the town's."

Nodding in acceptance if not understanding, Margot brushed a rather sisterly kiss to his right cheek and agreed to the butcher's son's invite to dance smiling.

* * *

"Do you remember your fifteenth birthday?" Erik asked, wistfully as the pair watched the party continue without them. Citing exhaustion at being twirled around the dance floor, Margot had retreated to a corner of the dance quietly, content with the familiar company of her 'brother'.

Dmitri had tried to persuade her to dance again but Madame Dovina claimed the next tune and his aunt the one after that. By the time he was free, Margot had slipped into the shadow, slightly relieved at being able to relax with Erik at her side.

"My fifteenth?" Margot echoed, curious as to his tone of voice. "No, I suppose I do not."

"I gave you a shawl," Erik prompted as her eyes skirted over his handsome masked visage. With his sharp jaw and beautifully sculpted features, the flashing of his deep green eyes on her and her alone, Margot allowed herself to slip into a commonly used daydream of hers, where Erik had confessed a mutual love for her and she was permitted his stares and glances as those of a lover.

"A shawl…" Margot murmured, fuzzy memories of a pewter-toned silver length of fabric coming to her. "I do remember. One of the ballerinas borrowed it without permission and ruined it."

Erik nodded. "You were very upset. I didn't understand why."

"Because it was a gift from you, Erik." Margot said, sleepily. "I always treasured your gifts." Unconsciously, her hand moved to the rose bud pendant that lay around her neck, fondly.

"It was easily replaced," Erik pointed out, his eyes focused on her intently. "I gave you the blue one, just weeks later."

"You said my chattering teeth were disrupting your compositions." Margot smiled, softly the memory.

Erik's gaze did not shift. "I worried for you."

"You worried for your art." His brunette companion corrected. "But I didn't mind, the blue one was warmer anyway."

"It did not compliment your eyes as well though." he commented.

"My eyes are grey, Erik." Margot laughed, quietly. "The blue suited them fine."

"The silver suited them better." Erik insisted.

"Why should it matter now?" Margot sighed, peacefully. Fatigue began to overcome her as she leaned her head unthinkingly onto the former Phantom's shoulder.

"You always mattered, _cherie._" Erik muttered. "I gave you the shawl in the first place because you deserved it."

"You gave it to me because I was complaining about being teased for not having nice sophisticated things." Margot again corrected, her shoulder shaking in gently giggles. Erik frowned as he took in the sight of her, eyes closed, curls falling out, red lips spread into a smile. And sitting there, with him, because she wanted to be.

_And do you recall how I offered you to stay in my home with me that night? _Erik thought silently. _Do you remember how I told you that you would not be mocked in my domain?_

But as he thought further, he considered the inadvertent cruelty of his words in the _Hotel du Mars, _how he had scorned her for the confession she had spilled hastily in trying to make their escape. Erik considered the agony on her face when he had expressed his guilt over deluding her into loving him, how she had raced out of the room, fled from it, from _him_.

Hardly the picture she was now, pressed against his shoulder, peaceful and happy.

_She has always been happy with me, _the errant thought, accompanied by the satisfaction that she did not have such a history with the Dovin boy, entered his head and was almost immediately rebutted with memories of Margot's tears when she listened to his ranting about Christine or his neglect of his health or his misdirected fury or his dismissal of her feelings.

Tonight though, Erik allowed himself the briefest of reprieves, just a moment to enjoy the unrestrained pleasure of Margot's soothing touch on his shoulder and the way she took comfort in him, despite everything.

_She said she loved me, _Erik thought as the party began to come to an end, the rich benefactor thanking everyone for their attendance and help. Who was the last to say they loved the Phantom?

"…Margot, there you are, I've been looking-" Dmitri exclaimed in a loud, pleased tone.

Erik threw him a dark stare which froze the boy in his tracks. "She has fallen asleep, _Monsieur,_" he hissed quietly. "It would not do well to wake her."

"…Erik, don't be so dramatic…" Margot yawned, her eyes blinking open as the fair began to pack up in earnest. "I'm perfectly awake."

"I had been hoping for another dance Mademoiselle Pierre," Dmitri said, smiling. "But it appears I waited too long."

Margot smiled, politely as she stood along with Erik. "Indeed." She agreed. "Then we had best be off, your grandmother wants help resorting her store tomorrow morning."

Dmitri leapt at the opportunity, much to Erik's irritation. "Then allow me to escort you home Mademoiselle."

"Then we shall thankyou for the offer." Margot glanced at Erik who as her 'brother' should have had the duty but he could hardly begrudge her once she had agreed.

Standing behind the pair a little ways, Erik followed the path back to their tiny cottage, his whole body wrought with tension at the knowledge that Dmitri Dovin's hand was pressed against the small of Margot's back the entire time.

"…and then Claude tipped the whole punchbowl onto himself and the pastor, who knew right away that it had been spiked!" Dmitri laughed freely along with Margot as they reached the cottage stoop. "Those boys will have their ears boxed until sundown tomorrow for all the trouble they cause tonight."

Margot giggled so hard that her face turned bright pink even in the moonlight. "Oh mercy," she gasped. "I pity Alec when Madame Dovina gets hold of him tomorrow!"

Unable to restrain his comments now that they had crossed onto Pierre Cottage's front stoop, Erik opened the door quietly. "Good evening Dmitri," Erik said, pointedly but the lad was again braver than Erik cared to admit.

"May I have a moment to say goodnight to your sister, Monsieur Pierre?" he asked, respectfully.

Margot turned to Erik expectantly because their unsaid rule where Erik's _permission _as her brother and guardian was concerned was that Erik would agree to anything because he had no real business permitting her to do _anything. _Biting his tongue, Erik nodded, graciously and entered their home, his keen ears still focused on the conversation outside.

"…had a wonderful evening with you too, Dmitri." Margot murmured, drowsily.

"I shall see you in the morning then?" Dmitri asked, somewhat eagerly.

"Of course," Margot agreed, entering the cottage. "We have to see to it that Alec still has his ears after Madame Dovina is through with him, remember?" Dmitri laughed and brought her hand to his lips in farewell before leaving. Which was just as well considering how close Erik was to tossing the boy out of his sight.

Margot sighed as she entered her boudoir and Erik listened as she slowly prepared for sleep. Pressing his hands together, Erik tried to remember that he had left the Phantom behind and that murdering obstacles was hardly an appropriate path to follow but _mercy_, did he want to make sure Dmitri never laid his mouth on Margot again.

Forcing himself to remain logical, he tried to focus on how irrational his urges were. Specifically, one urge that had been causing him trouble for weeks. Erik had already decided that the Dovin boy was hardly a villain and a perfectly adequate candidate for Margot's affections. He had already announced to himself that should Margot find the boy _charming _or _handsome, _she was perfectly within her rights to think so and to act accordingly.

He had shunned her when she had confessed her feelings about him. He had no right to demand she shun every other man she could possibly have a future with.

For a second, an image of Margot laying in the arms of the perfectly formed Dovin boy fluttered through his mind and Erik physically restrained his hands from clenching so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"This is wrong." He snapped at himself in hushed tones. "This is _ridiculous_!"

But the urge remained, despite its irrationality. The urge to be selfish and keep Margot's love for himself, despite the fact that he was ill-equipped to receive it.

Margot deserved a perfectly formed lover, a man capable of protecting and cherishing her in the ways that Erik had once dreamed of adoring Christine.

_But Christine would need gentleness, _a small part of him acknowledged. _She would need prettiness and sweetness. _In the back of his mind, Erik could identify the difference between the two as simply as day and night. Margot would need passion, yearning. She would need strength and intensity. She was not the type to settle for a mild love, Margot would always ache for a love like in her stories.

No, keeping Margot's love for himself was entirely selfish and wrong, especially considering the fact that he was ill-equipped to receive it.

But that fact did not keep him from the passions stirring within him, into feelings that Erik could barely identify. It did not keep him from stealing across the cottage to Margot's chambers, from watching as the moonlight illuminated her pearly skin.

It did not keep him from creeping up to her bedside and whispering all he felt in her sleeping ear. He told her of how he regretted causing her pain and of how he had hoped that everything would have turned out better for her. He murmured to her how he had always found her beautiful even when she herself had not.

Erik tried to express how she had always been his and how he had always been hers, despite his attempts to pledge himself to another. He asked her to ignore his cowardice for confessing such things in the dead of night to a sleeping woman.

He begged her to forgive him for dismissing her love rather than cherishing it as he should have. _I always treasured your gifts,_ she had replied.

"I should have treasured yours, _cherie._" He breathed as he pressed his lips gently to her temple, where the curl he has pulled from her ear in the early evening had fallen.

Because despite the fact that he was ill-equipped to receive her love, Erik decided as pulled himself away from the sleeping beauty- _his _sleeping beauty-, Erik, former Phantom of the Opera, Devil's child, boy with the mask and man with nothing to offer, was more than prepared to return it.

* * *

**A/N: And once again, Erik's timing is completely wretched. Hope you liked it, if you did, leave a review or PM me, I'd love to hear your thoughts!**

**she.s. .one**


	17. NOTIFICATION

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry to do this to you guys but I can't upload for a few days, my laptop is undergoing surgery :(**

**In the mean time, if you'd like to review to tell me how you like it so far and how horrible I am for not posting, please feel free.**

**Also, I made a banner a while ago for Storyteller and I have yet to post it, so the link is NOW ON MY PROFILE!**

**(I tried posting it here and got all grouchy :P)**

**If you would like to check it out and tell me what you think, I'd be very grateful! Hope to be back on schedule soon,**

**Very (very) sorry,**

**Shy x**


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**A/N: I'm back! And more importantly, Gideon, my computer, is back. Regular updates start now and the next one will be up in a week! Thank you so much for hanging on with me guys, you all rock!**

**Now, here's the chapter you've all been waiting for...**

* * *

_CHAPTER SEVENTEEN_

* * *

…_Erik's mood darkened for weeks. Often he would spend nights in the workshop in town, whittling away at his newest creation with his irritability as his inspiration and fuel. It drove me to madness to see him avoid me like he did. I could hardly enjoy Dmitri's company when I was so occupied with thoughts of Erik and what had happened to make him so upset and defeated._

_Because I, of course, had not believed him when he said he was merely unsettled in his new life. I knew that despite the isolation from the artistic world he loved, Erik's was a peaceful existence in Favreau and he had no reason at all to be complaining. You might call me oblivious but I did not piece together Dmitri's offer of his company and Erik's frustration until after everything unfolded. To me, the idea that a plain, backstage seamstress could hold the love of a Phantom was a ridiculous idea…_

* * *

Summer, 1871  
_Pierre Cottage  
Favreau, Switzerland_

* * *

"Are you ever going to tell me what you meant?" Margot asked one evening nearly three weeks after the dance.

She had been on edge ever since that night, waiting for Erik to reveal his 'reasons for disliking Dmitri' to her but he had been evading any attempts to bring it up subtly. Margot might bring up the councilman's drunken fall off the stage and he would bring up memories of Monsieur LeFevre's drunkenness at the Masquerade they'd attended a few years ago.

She would comment on Philippe's suspicious behaviour with the young Alec around the punch bowl and their empty bottle of brandy (which was responsible for the councilman's drunken state) and Erik might reply with news of another commission that was particularly interesting for him.

One night, having had enough of the dance they'd been doing, Margot decided to frame it as bluntly as possible.

And still he did not answer.

"Well?" Margot demanded impatiently. "Are you?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question _cherie,_" Erik said, amused. _Better amused than angry, _Margot supposed.

"Your reasons for disliking Dmitri?" Margot reminded him, crossly.

"Oh, that." Erik shrugged, smirking as he considered the book in front of him. Though it hardly matched his old collection, Erik had begun ordering in novels from the general store in town, which arrived once a month with a crate attached for him.

"Yes, that." Margot responded sarcastically. "Or shall we dance around it for another week?" Erik seemed to ponder the question, much Margot's dismay. "Erik!"

"But it is such a wonderful dance, _cherie_." Erik teased, a hint of sadness on his gaze.

As a matter of fact, Erik had decided to continue dancing around the issue as he had been since the young Dovin had made Margot's laugh so uproariously when he had escorted her home. Erik could not remember the last time he had made Margot smile so much and it gave him pause where his planned feelings were concerned.

He had yet to honestly confess to himself, let alone Margot and the sight of her so pleased and flushed with pleasure had made him wonder how selfish he could possibly be. He had already played with Christine's heart and mind and shunned Margot's confession in Paris. Could he really be the heartless monster again and take away her happiness with a half-understood admittance of his feelings?

The answer, he knew, was no and he had been trying his hardest to steer Margot away from his cryptic words that night though her curiosity was obvious. Erik refused to further jeopardise his friend's happiness with the complicated, foolish emotions within himself.

"Erik, please, this is driving me to madness!" Margot pleaded in frustration.

But Erik would say no more on the subject.

* * *

"Margot?" Dmitri's curious voice roused her from her thoughts.

"I'm so sorry Dmitri," Margot murmured, embarrassed by her inattention. "My mind escaped from me for a moment."

"I'm only glad you found it." Dmitri laughed. "I'm quite fond of it." Margot could only manage a weak smile back. "Are you quite alright Margot? You seem disturbed."

"Erik and I are arguing." Margot confessed with frustration. "And I'm trying to figure out why."

"An argument you are participating in and yet, you don't know the cause." Dmitri said, eyebrows raised as Margot went back to her sewing work. Madame Dovina was still helping Charlotte, the butcher's daughter, with the fittings for her wedding dress and Dmitri was kind enough to keep Margot company while she finished work for the evening. "Yes, I can see the frustration in that."

Margot sighed. "He won't tell me what is wrong and yet every time I see him, there is such sadness in his face. I wish I knew what bothered him so much but he refuses to confide in me, it is…upsetting. The last time we fought, we said some awful things to each other." Her mind filled with Erik's voice. _It sickens me to hear you say those words. To hear what I've done to you, I am wrecked with guilt._

Her hands shook remembering the pain of those words even now. Dmitri noticed and slowly reached for one, comfortingly. "I'm sorry to hear you're in such distress and if I didn't think he might rearrange my face for it, I would be having words with your brother alone."

Margot laughed bitterly. "The last man who had words with Erik alone disappeared into the night." She said, theatrically, though, remembering the fading light of Raoul and Christine on the gondola, it was technically true.

Dmitri winced, dramatically. "Then I'm afraid my gentlemanly instincts only extend to comforting you, mademoiselle."

"What a knight," Margot snickered before she paused and eyed Dmitri, apologetically. "I'm sorry to throw my burdens on you, Dmitri. Honestly, you should not be worrying about me at all."

"It is always my concern when a pretty girl is upset, Margot." Dmitri flirted, unashamedly.

The brunette seamstress blushed just as Madame Dovina arrived back in the workshop. "Dmitri, stop badgering my workers!" she fussed, seeing Margot's pinked cheeks.

"I'm only badgering one of them!" Dmitri protested, grinning.

"Well cease that too." Madame Dovina snapped, scribbling down Charlotte Dubois' measurements and exchanging notes with Margot. "I'm going to need her help and she can't do that when you're harassing her."

"Fine, I'll go." Dmitri allowed, holding his hands in surrender. "Father wants me to check in on Katarina anyway."

"Do make sure she's not straining herself with Gerry." Dovina instructed, sternly. "The girl will drive herself into madness if she continues."

"I will." Dmitri promised and bid Margot goodbye with a swift peck on the cheek which caught her off guard entirely. Madame Dovina shook her head at the boy, rolling her eyes.

"He will get himself in trouble one day." She vowed, wearily.

Margot could hardly answer, still attempting to come to a conclusion on how she felt about Dmitri kissing her, cheek, hand or otherwise.

While she had almost entirely given up hope that Erik would one day return her affections, Margot couldn't help but feel as though she were betraying her feelings by allowing Dmitri to continue acting this way toward her. Her heart twisted awkwardly at the idea of Dmitri while her head, practically so, demanded that she pay attention to the young man who was sweet and kind and rather good looking and _interested _in pursuing her.

But she could not reconcile the two and she often questioned if she should.

Erik's mood had grown grey over the weeks. She barely saw him and when she did, they spoke so carefully around each other. She simply couldn't understand why he was behaving this way or why.

That afternoon, she realised the reason for Erik's burdened spirit.

"He's very…enthusiastic," Margot acknowledged, diplomatically.

"More so than Erik would like, hmm?" Madame Dovina added in a knowing tone. She raised her eyebrows when Margot flushed guiltily.

"Erik hasn't had a chance to grow to like Dmitri." She defended, helping pin together the little fabric rosettes which would decorate the bride's wedding gown. "I'm sure they'll get on well soon enough."

"Dmitri is young." Dovina acknowledged, working quietly herself on the trim for the dress. "It is hard for embittered souls to stand such youth."

"Erik is not…_embittered!_" Margot snapped and immediately felt horrible for doing so. "I'm so sorry, Madame Dovina, I-"

The elderly seamstress waved her away dismissively. "Of course he is, Margot. Your brother has been injured hasn't he?"

"H-He had an accident."

"That's not what I meant."

"…I know," the pale young woman replied in a sigh. But she didn't want to go blabbing about Erik's checkered past to just anyone.

"You don't have to tell me, child." Madame Dovina said in an unusually soft tone. "But Erik's injuries are not easily fixed. You came here to let them breathe and they have, obviously. But you cannot think they have simply healed."

Margot thought it over as she finished her work for the day and left for the cottage, while she tied her apron and began preparing a simply soup for supper in the petite kitchen. She had thought Erik's new life was a benefit, a balm on Christine's gouges on his mind and heart.

But had she been expecting too much too soon?

"He's still mourning her," she thought aloud as she added pumpkin to the cooking pot. She paused in her movements, her chest aching with the idea of it. "Of course he still mourns Christine. It's hitting him what a lonely life he has without his love."

A small part of her felt spiteful. Wasn't leaving Paris behind enough? Wasn't Favreau enough? Its welcoming nature and people? The new chance they'd been given? …Wasn't she enough?

They hadn't spoken about that night since the train ride to Geneva but sometimes Erik would glance at her with that slight-smile or say something in his interested tone and her breath would catch. It was as though she could close her eyes and be back in her dreams, where Erik had requited her affection and they were living happily without the shadow of her former sister-like companion to darken his heart. In a way she longed for and was almost tempted to seek out with Dmitri.

But Margot had to remind herself, as she listened to Erik entering the house quietly, that they were indeed dreams.

And that Erik did not, had never and most likely would never love her the way she ached to be loved.

* * *

As Erik entered the cottage that evening, the rain began pelting down in earnest. A summer storm, Philippe had observed hours earlier when the sun was still shining. For a blind old bat, the carpenter was wiser than Erik gave him credit.

The point had been painfully driven home just that afternoon when Philippe, the blind handicap, saved their newest custom winged back chair from Erik's lack of attention.

He'd been carving away at the thick legs of the chair, smoothing down the rough birrs of the carving work. It was a simply but ornate piece, decorated with scrollwork and fine intricate detailing which repeated across the pair of arm chairs.

But his mind had wandered, as it never used to, to the young Dovin boy and his unblemished face, his quick smile and unrestrained eagerness to pursue Margot. His musings would start out innocently enough; every time he brought the course carpenter paper down along the carved wood, Erik saw her hand in his and then his mouth on her.

Then it was his mouth on her cheeks. And then on her lips.

And then on her lips while Margot, his beautiful fantastical Margot, dressed in a white gown. And then while he lay her in bed and eagerly let that filthy mouth drift along the undiscovered corners of her body-

It was then that Philippe called out to him. "Are you trying to sand away all that carving boy?" he'd barked, not unkindly. Pausing, the former phantom had realised he was two strokes away from destroying all his hard work and he'd had to stop, breathing hard from fury and sorrow and-

And fear.

Because of course, should he kiss Margot, the little _gosse _would love her. Anyone would. His Margot was simply an incredible woman. But of course, if he loved her, he would be compelled to marry her. And of course, if he married her, he would take her to bed-

The carpenter's paper in his hand rustled uncomfortably as Erik's fingers clenched around it, tightly.

_And if she loved him, _Erik thought, trying to mask his deep sorrow and guilt from the blind master before him. _Of course, Erik would fade into the background. It was time Margot was allowed her place to shine. Perhaps next to Dmitri Dovin was it._

With those thoughts, Erik entered the cottage with a defeated heart. He couldn't allow Margot to give up her happiness again to satisfy him. It was indescribably unfair to her, considering what she had already done for him.

Margot didn't greet him when he entered the kitchen, only hunched her shoulders over her hot meal preparations. It suited Erik just fine. He couldn't bear another light hearted conversation with the woman he loved while trying to put away his selfish wants. Not after his newest vow, which his subconscious phantom found absolutely ridiculous.

Margot dished the soup carefully but silently, only speaking when she finally placed the bowls on the table between them. "It's very hot," she warned, quietly then bit her lip. Erik had to physically restrain his fingers from untucking the delicate flesh from between her teeth by grabbing his spoon. "How was Philippe?" she asked, forcedly.

Erik could not take it. "_Cherie,_" he breathed, painfully. "Can we not pretend tonight?"

"P-pretend?" Margot stumbled, fidgeting. "What are we pretending?"

"That we are both perfectly content and serene." Erik replied, bluntly. In a twisted way, his pain felt justifiable to his guilty conscience, in a way it never had with Christine. _Margot felt like this every day we met for years. _He thought, drained. _And she bore it so well, I never noticed._

Margot listened to the thunderous pour of the rain as it pattered across the roof for a long pause. "I'm sorry Erik," she murmured, solemnly. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realise how you felt."

Erik's heart nearly stopped.

She- She _knew? _She had heard him that night when he whispered all of his soul and mind and body into her slumbering ear? "How I feel?" he echoed, fighting to keep his tone even. Hope and confusion and dread seemed to pool in the same depth of his stomach. She knew…and she apologised? She no longer felt love for him?

It all came to a head with that one question which his mind instantly supplied an answer to.

Dmitri Dovin.

It was obvious; Margot had waited long enough and her affections had withered under his misguided attempts to love another. And she had found her new start in that arrogant, irritating, insufferable little _whelp-_

"…it's so obvious now, I can't understand why I didn't see it before," she was mumbling to herself.

_Was I so obvious? _Erik wondered, frowning. He thought he had kept it from her so well.

"I-I can stay away if you want me to?" Margot continued, hesitatingly. "If you would like?"

All at once, every part of him roared in unison. "_No!_" he blurted out, eyes widening. In mere seconds he had left his chair and knelt before her, taking her hands tightly in his. He wanted to savour her touch because in such little time it would belong to another. "No Margot," he pleaded in a softer voice. "The only thing that would make this harder is your absence, I can promise you that."

Margot didn't look him in the eye. "I would've thought it would make things harder-" She remarked, defeat in her voice.

"Never." Erik swore but she was not listening.

"-I know it's difficult, I know I must remind you of her-"

"Who, _cherie?_" he pressed, confused by this new stream of thought. Margot continued on.

"-saying those things that night must have made it all so frustrating," she sighed, barely even talking to him anymore. "Trying to keep me happy while still handling her loss, I am so sorry I put you under the strain Erik, truly, I didn't mean to-"

"Her loss?" Erik echoed, puzzled.

"-I didn't even notice the depth of your gratitude when it smothered your own distress!" she added, sounding rather distressed herself. "Honestly, you should not have hidden your suffering for so long just for me. You would have done the same for me and I know I would do it over and over if I had to make the choice."

By now, Erik had lost control of the conversation entirely. "_Cherie, _I _am _thankful for what you've done for us…" he began.

"I know that but oppressing your hurt over Christine's loss is no way to show gratitude!" Margot exclaimed with the faintest hint of tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. She stood and wrenched her hands away as the thunder struck again. She sank her hands into her hair, trying to think.

"When did Christine enter this conversation, Margot?" Erik demanded, irritably. As always, Margot had made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

"From the very beginning, you daft fool!" she snapped, angrily. "Erik, if I knew it would cause you to feel so compelled to keep me happy, I would never have confessed the things I did that night!"

"Daft?" Erik retorted, bitingly. The insult to his intelligence cut deeply. "Well then why don't you explain these _things _since I obviously have no ability for comprehension!"

She recoiled. "You _know _what things!"

"Repeat them, Margot," he demanded, mockingly. "I need things repeated to me, my stupidity is simply so overwhelming!"

"Things like-like-"

"I'm waiting, oh clever one!"

"Things like how I love you!" Margot exploded. "Things like how I wish you hadn't ever laid eyes on Christine! Like how I knew it would only hurt you in the end and I _prayed _every day to capture even an ounce of the attention you paid her! Things like how jealous I am that she knows a part of you I could never and that even now, even when we have new lives and new friends who love us, you still mourn the love that escaped you even if she was _never _worthy of it!"

Erik had risen before she said anything more than I love you and as she finished, he cradled her face in his rough hands with all the delicacy he possessed. "Oh _cherie,_" he breathed, unable to keep any of his relief from his wonder-filled expression. "Perhaps I am a fool because I cannot seem to come up with words to adequately describe how you astound me."

Instead of pleasure, Margot's fine features screwed up with agony. "Erik," she nearly whimpered, her lovely grey eyes slipping shut. "You cannot say things like that. Please, I-I can't bear it. I'm not that strong."

"Wrong." He replied simply, brushing his lips over her eyelids gently. He could feel them relax wherever he touched her skin. "You are my strong, fascinating, insufferable, wonderful woman, Margot."

"Please," she whispered in a barely audible voice. "I can't."

"Of course you can, _cherie,_" Erik marvelled into her ear, tracing his way to her cheekbones and the hollow of her throat. How had he never noticed the soft skin there? In all these years, when the perfect symmetry of her collar bones escaped him? "You deserve all these words and more."

In a fit of restraint, Margot tore herself away, heaving breaths. Her hands clutched at her skin, one at her throat and one over her eyes, both places he had kissed. "I cannot bear you trying to give me what you think I deserve Erik." She said, flatly. "I cannot accept this affection when it comes from some misplaced sense of guilt or duty or gratitude-"

"I love you, Margot." Erik stated, helplessly but without a shred of hesitation. His limits had been thoroughly broken and the words came pouring out. "Margot-"

Her reaction was unexpected to say the least.

For the first time in manyyears and despite many, _many _occasions where he deserved it, Margot's hand struck him sharply, her entire body quivering as she stared, white faced at him. His temper flared at the hot sting which felt more demeaning that painful but her bloodless expression cured his ire in a heartbeat.

"How dare you?" she began, lowly. "How dare you say that to me? I never thought you would try to hurt me so _cruelly._"

"Margot-" but she refused to listen.

"You would throw my feelings back at me?" she screeched, wildly. "You would tear me in half like this? How dare you mock me like this-?"

His patience would only last so long and in that second, it broke. Reaching out and with his superior strength, Erik grabbed his lady's waist-because she was _his _lady now, he'd make damn sure- and drew her near, pressing his lips against hers in one smooth manoeuvre. And dear Lord in heaven, wasn't it perfect.

She turned soft under his touch, her lips suddenly hesitant and pliable to his when they weren't spewing venom and her hands twisted into his dress shirt as though for dear life. She conjured that fantastical sense of dreaming in his fogged mind. He could hardly tell if he was even awake but if he was, Erik would do whatever necessary to remain asleep for eternity. Slowly, he captured her bottom lip which had been taunting him for weeks and ever so gently sucked. The indecently loud moan that escaped Margot was worth every word she'd said, however erroneous they were.

Finally, he let her escape and caught her hand when it swooped up to smack him across the other cheek. "Uh-uh," he scolded, gently with a smile of absolute contentment. "None of that or I'll have to kiss you again."

"W-What was that?" Margot asked desperately.

"My intolerable, astounding _cherie_," Erik replied, fondly, letting her fingers sink between his. "That was my love for you. And even if you no longer love me, you will again. I think you'll find my way of expressing it is _very _persuasive." He ducked his head down and after a moment, felt her lips gently mimic his motions. The feeling sent him skyward.

"Erik, I don't know what this means." She breathed into his mouth, helplessly.

"It means that my every waking thought belongs to you," he remarked, his lips brushing hers with every word. "It means that I can do nothing without considering you. It means that I see you in my past and my present and every day of our long and happy future." The words themselves made him tighten his grip on her as he kissed her again and again. Each one was better than the last, each one reminded him of every kindness she'd ever shown him, every moment she had shown what an impossible creature she was.

"Say it," Margot demanded after a long moment.

"I don't know," he murmured, nonchalantly. "The last time I said it, you slapped me."

"And I will do more than slap you if you are lying to me Erik." She replied, positively trembling in his grasp. Her eyes were wide, still and solemn. "Say it."

"I am impossibly drawn to you," Erik declared for her ears only. "I am unhealthily obsessed with you. I am incredulously in awe of you and I am _deeply _in love with you, Margot Ferrand. And I will prove it to you every day for the rest of your life, if I must."

"I love you too." Margot murmured from within the arms of her Phantom.

* * *

**What do you think? A declaration fit for a Phantom? Review if you have thoughts on whether it was too much, too little or just enough, I am astounded by how many of you take the time to type out your essay-long reviews :)**

**Thanks everyone,**

**Shy.**


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**A/N: i'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi' msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'ms orryi'msorryi'msorry-**

* * *

_CHAPTER EIGHTEEN_

_It is difficult to put into words how I felt that night. It seems callous to use such simple emotions like anxiety and shock and the purest sense of joy but to be honest, they are the only words useful enough. They encompass such a range of degrees between them that surely one such part of those feelings has to depict what I felt._

_Erik loved me. Erik loves me. I could not imagine how it came to be but it transformed me. Love turned my world anew, solnyshka. It grew security out of my hesitance, hope out of my fear. It grew ecstasy from my wounded heart and everything was suddenly so different. I had been living under the assumption that the Phantom could never love someone as plain as I for so many years._

_As it turned out, Erik did not agree._

* * *

Summer, 1871  
_Pierre Cottage  
Favreau, Switzerland_

* * *

"When did you know?" she asked with trepidation. In a small dark corner of her heart, Margot was still prepared to retreat should she find the slightest hesitance in his words. She could scarcely believe Erik loved her the way she had pined for him- it seemed too good to be true.

Having effectively tackled her love, the pair had fallen on to the settee where Margot was loathe to release her grip from around his neck. Though she could hardly believe what had happened, she would be damned if she would let the opportunity go to waste.

After what felt like mere seconds, Margot could feel Erik's steadying hands begin to shift and she clenched tighter onto his form as though he might slip away if she was careless. His musical chuckle warmed every part of her as he gently pried her limbs away.

"It has been…growing for a long time." He replied, carefully. "When we first arrived here, you were so capable, Margot. You certainly know how to make a man feel useless." He chuckled.

"You could never be useless, Erik." She cut off his self-deprecating thought frankly. "The world is in dire need of minds like yours."

"It was not my mind that secured us passage out of the city, _cherie. _It was not my mind that got us this house, nor my mind that supported us when we first began this life." he observed, fondly but sadly. He gathered her scarred fingers to his lips. "I told myself I would watch over you after you hurt the first time and for those first few months, I failed you."

"I never knew." Margot whispered, recalling how Erik had reacted to her brief, terrifying stint as a hard skinned, miserable, expendable laundress at the Populaire. Gently, quietly as he forbade her from returning and harshly, bluntly as he tried to heal her hands. She could still remember resisting the foul concoction he'd wanted to poor on them and his cruel words. _Fine! Scar yourself! No man will ever want to kiss your hands then!_

Drawing them away, she tried not to look at the damaged flesh which was mottled and bleached from the toxic cleaning agents of the Populaire.

Trying to change subjects, Margot pressed a kiss to Erik's mouth, revelling in the soft strength of him. "Since we arrived here? That is when you knew?"

"More so after the Town Dance." He admitted, quietly. "I don't think you understand how heartbreakingly beautiful you appeared to me that night."

"And yet you said nothing?"

Erik sighed. "I thought you would be better off with another."

Margot connected the dots between his words quickly. "Another like Dmitri?" A cold splash of fear gripped her. Was it only fear of loneliness that sprouted these words and this love? "Erik, you know- you know I would still care for you as a friend and companion even if I had left?"

Erik growled a little. "I would have you cease doubting me, Margot."

She forced herself to calm as she looked up at him, pressing her lips to the hands that traced circles across her clavicle as he had done to hers. "Then I shall." She breathed back.

Her half faced love's irritated gaze cooled. "And I would have you be honest with me. I-Is that little _gosse _what you want?"

"Erik," Margot whispered, effervescent in the joy radiating through her. "I love _you_. Not Dmitri, nor anyone else. It has _always _been you. I love you."

"And I you, _cherie._" Erik breathed back, letting his eyes trace over her but made no move to touch her. Naturally, Margot did not agree with this plan.

As she sat up slightly, half in his lap from being so close, Margot spent time brushing kisses over his eyes and forehead and cheeks and chin. She used her most searing, pent up kisses for his mouth, which she had recently developed a fascination with and her sweetest kisses were for the space at the edge of his jaw.

But her most tender affections were dedicated to the supple mask that covered him from view and Margot applied each one with care. She had waited what felt like her whole life to show Erik how she adored him and she would not be stopped now.

But when Erik slowly eased the pair apart, Margot had to reign in the fog gathering in her mind that was colouring every part of Erik in a light glow. "Wha-?" she complained slightly but Erik's finger tracing the cupid's bow of her lips stopped her.

"My dear, we have time enough for that." He said, not even breathing hard as she was. How dreadfully unfair.

"I've been patient enough," Margot muttered, complaining half heartedly. It was hard to complain when Erik's hand was still busily sketching her features with his fingertips.

"Indeed you have, _cherie_." Erik murmured back. Margot would have thought his tone perfectly neutral had it not been for the tiny flash of guilt in his gaze as he looked upon her.

"What bothers you, my love?" she asked quietly. His finger tried to erase the crease forming between her brows but she refused to be dissuaded. Unwilling to allow their newfound happiness to be tainted by Erik's sadness, she wiggled into a seated position and took his face in her hands, delicately embracing the right side with every tenderness she possessed.

"How long, Margot? When did _you _know?" he asked, noncommittally.

Frowning, she shrugged, unbothered. "I must have been ten or so when I first began to think of you like this. But I've always known you were spectacular, Erik, surely you must have known?"

"Eleven years then." He replied, calmly. "Eleven years you waited while I tormented you. I wonder how you cannot hold it against me. How spectacular could you possibly find me when I did not even see what was blooming before my very eyes?"

"Oh Erik," Margot sighed, half sad, half exasperated. "Do you truly think I expected you to see me? To love me? It was enough to be your friend, to have to privilege of knowing you. You did not torment me, you saved me, loved me as your friend and confidant. How could I ever blame you for that?"

"Eleven years, Margot." Erik frowned, seeming frustrated with her words. "More than half your life-"

"Spent loving a man who could not have deserved it more. Spent in your wonderful company." She insisted.

"-loving a fickle monster." He finished, scornfully.

Margot's whole body, which up until that point, Erik had found lovely and pliant as she rested in his grip, turned rigid and unyielding. Erik made a small noise of complaint as she wriggled from his arms and stood before him, shoulders back, neck extended and a scowl that would fell a lumberjack across her features.

"If you love me even a little as I do you, you will never use that word again." She demanded quietly, grey eyes suddenly turned to smoke. Erik had little doubt that where there was smoke, there was most certainly a fire and in Margot's case, it seemed to be her temper. But how beautiful she was in the flames of it.

"I asked you not to doubt me, Margot." Erik snapped, unwilling to confront or answer her demands. Better to concentrate on the other half of her words.

"And I asked you not to call yourself that." Margot replied, unbending. "If we could simply agree to both issues, our problems would resolve themselves."

"Then I suppose resolution is simply too far outside our capabilities, _cherie._" He snarled, irritably. Could she not simply accept him as he was? Could she not abandon that infuriating perception of him as some kind of saviour?

Margot's jaw clenched as she knelt before him and immediately, his hands leapt to her shoulders, trying to pull her back to her feet but she would not be moved. As he sat before her, Margot gathered his hands and pressed her lips to the palms. "I wish you could see yourself as I do for even a moment, Erik." She murmured. "I would not have wanted you to return my affections if you were not certain. To have you as a friend was extraordinary and to have you now as...you are," she added, hesitantly. He frowned in reply. "That is the most wonderful gift I've ever received. But to have you trail between the two as you would have if I'd told you? To have you uncertain, pressured even? Erik, I am glad we finally pieced ourselves together and I don't regret how it happened."

Despite having restrained their affections earlier, the former phantom could not stop himself from standing, wrapping his arms around Margot and lifting her into the air in a single movement, pressing his mouth to hers in a desperate embrace.

They would have so much to do; Margot seemed determined to convince him of his goodness, Erik firmly wanted to correct her on what she'd called them (they were lovers, not '_as they were'_ and there was nothing more to it) and neither of them seemed in any way ready to back down. But their tenacity was an achievable obstacle, Margot's steel coil spine masked in soothing tenderness, Erik's brilliance and inner light only dimmed by self loathing, not extinguished. There were ways around such flaws and in all honesty, Erik was rather looking forward to the challenge.

Now only to make the rest of Favreau understand that.

* * *

Fall, 1871  
_Pierre Cottage  
Favreau, Switzerland_

* * *

None could have guessed what happened inside the Thierry Cottage at night when darkness fell around the secret couple, a cool autumnal blanket which promised security and cover from the sight of the town. Margot still cooked supper each night and Erik still fixed the various parts of the cottage with his beautiful work but the commonplace actions were now interspersed with kisses and stories and long moments where each other's beauty would overwhelm the senses. It was as though they had simultaneously taken a leap back to a time where being around each other had been simple and pleasurable and a jump forward to a time where neither of them were inclined to hide their affections.

Erik had no qualms about scooping Margot into his embrace and Margot certainly had no issue with snuggling deeper into his chest as he read from the few books they'd bought or brought along. Though hardly romance novels (Margot had a penchant for adventurous texts like _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea _by Jules Verne and Erik preferred deeper, somewhat sad and even morbid pieces, like _Les Rayons et Les Ombres _by Victor Hugo), Erik had a way of making every syllable resonate through his body which in turn made the echo in Margot's feel far more intimate than the telling of nautical adventures should.

Occasionally, Margot would read to Erik instead or make her own stories, or recount the fantasies she'd had as a youth, of the pair running away from Paris and finding a secret forest or island in which to hide. But as the fall leaves dropped around their home, the storyteller and her former phantom found themselves more inclined to simply lay together, gentle and very much in love while the clouds opened up around them.

It was one night such as this as the rain began tapping tentatively at the window that Margot sighed into Erik's chest, unwilling to broach her thoughts. "You are happy here, Erik?" she asked, frowning slightly as she considered the soft handmade coverlet around them. Mme Dovina had long since allowed her to take fabric for her own use and sensing the oncoming rain weather, Margot had sewn extra warm blankets for their bed, though the pair remained chaste beneath them. Though not for the lack of trying on her part. Another thought Margot was unwilling to touch upon.

Erik chuckled slightly at the odd question and the sound rumbled across his chest beneath her. "Of course _cherie._"

"I know you like Monsieur Le Pont, even though you say you don't," she added on a whim. "And the Dovins are wonderful people. And the whole town is so friendly-"

"Margot?"

"Yes?"

"What is this about?" Erik asked, a touch of amusement in his rich voice.

Margot fingered the coverlet idly, trying to avoid the topic she knew she had to face. "Everyone here thinks we're family." She murmured after a long moment. "That you are my brother and I am your sister. No one can ever find out what we are or we will be shunned, for what they consider incest or for lying and staying together unmarried."

Erik did not respond for a long while and Margot tried to fill the silence and anxiety growing beneath her skin.

"I-I'm not saying I want to leave. I think Favreau is wonderful. I know it's difficult being in such a small town, I know you wish you had your music back-" she thought she felt him flinch at that but it was true. Erik had begun humming again under his breath though he always stopped himself abruptly. It hurt her to know that he associated music with _Don Juan _and the Populaire and the new Viscountess but they were hardly in a position to make new memories in Favreau. "-but I feel like we have a place here. But I feel like it is a place for the Pierre siblings. We cannot tell anyone about us, Erik. They would not understand."

"They would not." He agreed, quietly. "You're right."

"We'll have to keep things a secret." Margot replied, cautiously. "No one can know."

"Then no one will find out." Erik answered, brushing a kiss to her hair. She flagged a little, only allowing herself to feel the tiniest bit hurt by the ease with which Erik had agreed to keep them a secret. _It was your idea Margot and it's the only sensible idea you have._

"We'll figure things out though in the end, won't we?" Margot asked after a moment of pause in a small voice.

She could feel Erik's smile in the dim light of the fire place. "Of course _cherie. _I'll only hold back from kissing you in daylight for so long."

Margot sighed with a touch of dreaminess in the sound at the idea of letting Erik escort her out along the cobbled streets of Favreau, handsome, tall, strong, perfect in the daylight, looking at her with eyes of love she had so often imagined.

* * *

At first, there was no issue.

Rarely was it seen that the two Pierre siblings were together in town as Erik worked with Le Pont and Margot with the seamstress. As they had been doing such a wonderful job at avoiding each other for the past few weeks, no one found it odd that the brother and sister did not come into contact much around others, though they noticed the lift in spirits in each of them.

Margot Pierre's smile was now burned into the memories of many young men around town as it lit up her face most often as she moved about Favreau, not to mention the swooning which occurred at the carpenters when Erik Pierre's laugh resounded from within. Few thought it strange and carried as usual.

"Whatever has changed your spirits, I approve." Mme Dovina said one afternoon as they prepared to leave the dressmakers. It had been an unusually busy day, mainly due to the cool rush of weather they'd been experiencing. Warmer dresses and clothes were being pulled out for the approaching winter and garments which had fit so well a year ago, were suddenly too small or big or ill fitted for their owners. Margot enjoyed the change of pace however; at one point, Mme Dovina's mutterings over how a gentleman's wife had possibly ruined the hem of her dress _again _had reminded Margot of Madame Tenau at the Populaire in a way which she'd nearly forgotten.

She couldn't quite remember when Favreau had become so familiar but having lived in the town for just over six months, Margot had to admit, like the garments the inhabitants were finding ill fitting, slipping back into Populaire life conjured a similar feeling. She didn't fit in the opera's crew anymore; the idea of it left her feeling sort of pinched and uncomfortable and a little sad. The Populaire had been her home for a long time, longer, she thought, than any other place in the world, including her old Versailles home.

And while Favreau had been just what she needed, a place she could branch out and stand apart from the rest of the busy, abrupt, perhaps a little corrupted crew of the opera house, it was beginning to pinch in unexpected places too. Like when she picked out bread from the bakery and Theo would greet her with a smiling _Mademoiselle Pierre, how lovely to see you again _or when she went to drop off an article of clothing to one of the country homes and a manservant would introduce her as _Mademoiselle Margot Pierre, from the Dovin Dressmakers _to the mistress of the home.

Margot Ferrand still burned at the very heart of her and it was frustrating that Margot Pierre was all the Favreau inhabitants would see. Of course, it was nonsense to think that way. Margot Ferrand died in the sewers of the Populaire, a victim of the Phantom's rage. Margot Pierre had been a fresh start, a young woman with considerable skills in her occupation who had endeared herself to the public but now, Margot Pierre was becoming more like a cage than a beginning.

"I'm glad," Margot replied laughingly as she checked her bag for the length of ribbon she'd purchased from Mme Dovina's to go with a new dress she was working on. She told herself to put away her melancholy and enjoy the crisp autumn air, the success of a good day's work, the smell of Theo's _petit fours, _the sound of Dmitri's greeting his grandmother-

_What?_

She turned to see the brown haired stable keeper brightly kissing his grandmother's cheek and relieving her of her bag. "I'm here to escort you home, grandmamma." He laughed when Mme Dovina squawked at having her things taken away.

Her eyes softened at his words. "Your grandfather used to escort me home, you know." Mme Dovina sighed, wistfully. "Dear boy, I'm an old battle horse, I've no need of an escort. Take Margot home instead, she's carrying more than usual this evening." Mme Dovina's shrewd gaze fell upon her arms which indeed carried a few children's clothes Margot was making for Theo and Yvette's new baby boy who had been born just a week prior.

Margot smiled, uncomfortably. "And here I thought I might escape unscathed." She muttered to Dovina in Russian. The old woman barked out a laugh and took her bag back from Dmitri who looked well pleased with this turn of events.

"It would be my pleasure." Dmitri told her, extending his arm.

With no reason not to, Margot took it and waved goodbye to Mme Dovina as they set off for Thierry cottage. Dmitri kept up a steady stream of conversation and Margot felt relieved that she did not have to contribute much more than a quiet _oh? _or _of course _in response. As the cottage came into view, Margot was sure she could see Erik at the window. Claude Le Pont had told him to take a few days rest since his father was feeling ill and Erik had taken the time to reorchestrate the entire house. It drove Margot mad to find all the furnishings moved about and occasionally altered as Erik reorganised things to his liking. If she had a serious problem, he would listen but other than that, Erik's need for control prevailed and Margot had not seen the living room in the same lay out twice over the past few days.

She was almost ready to traipse over to the Le Pont household and nurse Phillipe back to health herself, if only so Erik would go back to work and take out his creativity on something other than their home!

As they neared the front gate, she hoped he would not see Dmitri and come to the wrong conclusion but she saw no way of viewing the scene in a good light, given their situation. As the front door swung open, Margot caught the last of Dmitri's sentence: "...town again?" He followed with an expectant look.

"I-I am sorry, Dmitri, my head is elsewhere. What were we speaking of?" she asked, embarrassed, though a large part of her attention was concentrated on the empty doorway she knew Erik lurked near.

Far from being offended, Dmitri laughed. "I can see I haven't your full attention this evening but it is no matter. I was asking if you would do me the honour of letting me escort you around town again?" the words were deceptively simple but there was purpose in his blue eyes.

Margot felt as though she had swallowed a kettle. She knew what such words meant. It was one of those signs the ballerinas had always delighted in gossiping about. _One escort might be a coincidence but two escorts and courtship is not far behind!_ They'd giggled rambunctiously.

But she had no legitimate reason to say 'no'. Dmitri was a kind, good tempered, funny young man with a steady job and no immediate vices. There was no reason for her to deny him the opportunity and yet it was the last thing Margot wanted to accept, not only for her and Erik's sake but because she didn't want to string Dmitri along with no hope of a future for them.

On impulse, her fingers wrapped around the rose carving Erik had given her, the good fortune ridden pendant she had yet to take off for any reason, as she thought over how to phrase her rejection. Dmitri's eyes followed to the necklace and it seemed to give him pause.

"I remember this." He murmured with a small frown. "You wore it to the dance."

"I did." Margot agreed, simultaneously confused and slightly relieved that the topic had changed.

"I thought it was old then but the glaze looks new." He added, thoughtfully and then paused. "It was a gift then?"

"Yes."

"From a man?" Dmitri asked the question without accusation but she still felt embarrassment at her answer.

"Yes."

Dmitri sighed and cast her a small, disappointed smile. "A man does not carve a pendant like this for a woman he does not love."

Margot didn't know how to respond and so kept silent, though her heart broke a fraction for the poor man before her.

"I had hoped I was the first to see your beauty, Margot but I suppose that was arrogant of me." He sighed. "Do you love him in return?"

Margot bit her lip and tried to fight the tears beading at the corners of her eyes lest she give him the wrong impression. "With my soul." She replied, quietly but with no less fervour.

Dmitri could not help but betray his disappointment as he nodded and smiled weakly at her, reaching out just a moment to brush Margot's cheek. "Then I wish you both the best of luck, Margot." He said with a sincere, unimaginably decent tone before departing with a slightly heavy tread. Margot bit her lip as he left, knowing without a doubt, she would not have had the strength to behave so gracefully.

As she let herself past the gate, she cried a little at the guilt of having injured a dear friend and passed through the doorway, having almost forgotten that Erik waited for her there as the door closed. Without a word, he had wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her so close against him there was simply no other option but to kiss him.

When she finally managed to gather enough restraint to pull away, Margot found herself scowling breathlessly. "You were eavesdropping again, weren't you?" she muttered, irritably but unable to muster much resentment.

"Of course I was." Erik didn't even care to deny. "I don't like the way he looks at you."

"_That's _your problem with Dmitri." Margot suddenly pieced together, feeling foolish as she blushed pink. "Well, you needn't worry any longer, I think I've crushed his spirits enough that he won't visit me anymore." She added in a morose tone.

Erik rolled his eyes at her exaggeration. "He read the signs _cherie, _there was nothing to be done. Would you rather he continues courting you?"

"We weren't courting," Margot denied, tucking her head beneath his chin and indulging in the strength of his arms. "And of course not. Not only do I have you but I've no wish to see Dmitri dead."

"I wouldn't have killed him." Erik muttered, petulantly. "Maybe just maimed a little."

Margot chuckled lightly, knowing it was all in play. The deaths inside the Populaire still haunted him but she was pleased he could accept the joke where it lay. "Well _don't. _He wishes us the best of luck which is admirable considering he was just rejected."

"Admirable." Erik scoffed, tightening his grip a touch more. Though they continued on with their evening undisturbed, Margot felt as though she hadn't seen the last of this problem.

* * *

**A/N: -i'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi 'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorry-**

**Forgive me yet? D: You're all amazing if you're still reading!**

**Please review, if only to tell me how much I suck for not updating in millenia!**

**Much love,  
Shy**

* * *

**Vocabulary**

_gosse – French word for 'brat'_

_Les Rayons et Les Ombres – 'The Sunrays and the Shadows' by Victor Hugo is a collection of poetry. _(I find parts of it a little morbid and broody myself by I figured hell, what else would Erik want to read? And side note, quite by accident, both Hugo and Verne are French authors who published in the period I'm writing in!)

_petit fours – a small French pastry and absolutely delicious_


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